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OUTRE-MER 

A PILGRIMAGE BEYOND THE SEA 

BY HENRY WADSWORTH 

LONGFELLOW 



PORTLAND EDITION 




The House in Portland, Maim 

PUBLiu liiijii^iitlY. 

BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

^Je JItibersibe pre^j^, Cambribge 

1894 



"PSE2.T3 

.at 






Entered according to Aei of Congress, in the year 1866, by 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 
the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Maasachusetts. 

r 



EXCHANGE 
SROWN UNIV LIBRArn- 
OCT 7. 1938 



w^ 



CONTENTS 



OUTRE-MER. 

Pagb 

The Epistle Dedicatory . , . . . 7 

The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer • o • • 9 

The Norman Diligence 13 

The Golden Lion Inn 21 

Martin Franc and the Monk of St. Anthony 27 

The Village of Auteuil . • . « . 48 

Jacqueline , . 61 

The Sexagenarian .... . 71 

PfeRE LA Chaise ....... 78 

The Valley of the Loire .... 92 

The Trouveres 108 

The Baptism of Fire .^ ^' t "'' % ^-"^ • • . 124 

Coq-a-l'Ane . •. ... . . • 135 

The Notary of P^rigueux ' . ... 147 

The Journey into Spain 160 

Spain . « 174 

A Tailor's Drawer 182 

Ancient Spanish Ballads ..... 196 

The Village of El Pardillo . . . .221 

The Devotional Poetry of Spain . • . 237 



iv Cofitenfs 

The Pilgrim's Breviary . , . . • 267 

The Journey into Italy . . • • • 297 

Rome in Midsummer , . • • « - 3^1 

The Village of La Riccia • « • • 334 
Note-book ..,,•••• 353 

The Pilgrim's Salutation . • • • • 360 

Colophon • • 363 



OUTRE-MER 



A PILGRIMAGE BEYOND THE SEA 



I have passed manye landes and manye yles and contrees, and cherched 
manye fulle straunge places, and have ben in manye a fulle gode honour- 
able companye. Now I am comen home to reste. And thus recordyng© 
the tyme passed, I have fulfilled these thynges and putte hem wrytea in 
this boke, as it woulde come into my mynde. 

Sir Jehn MaundevilU, 



THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY 



The cheerful breeze sets fair ; we fill our sail. 
And scud before it. When the critic starts, 
And angrily unties his bags of wind. 
Then we lay to, and let the blast go by. 

HURDIS. 



Worthy and gentle Reader, — 

I DEDICATE this little book to thee with 
many fears and misgivings of heart. Be- 
ing a stranger to thee, and having never admin- 
istered to thy wants nor to thy pleasures, I can 
ask n'^thing at thy hands saving the common 
courtesies of life. Perchance, too, what I have 
written will be little to thy taste ; — for it is 
little in accordance with the stirring spirit of 
the present age. If so, I crave thy forbearance 
for having thought that even the busiest mind 
might not be a stranger to those moments of 
repose, when the clock of time clicks drowsily 
behind the door, and trifles become the amuse- 
ment of the wise and great. 

Besides, what perils await the adventurous 
author who launches forth into the uncertain 
current of public favor in so frail a bark as 



8 The Epistle Dedicatory 

this ! The very rocking of the tide may over- 
set him ; or peradventure some freebooting 
critic, prowUng about the great ocean of letters, 
may descry his strange colors, hail him through 
a gray goose-quill, and perhaps sink him with- 
out more ado. Indeed, the success of an un- 
known author is as uncertain as the wind. 
" When a book is first to appear in the world/' 
says a celebrated French writer, "- one knows 
not whom to consult to learn its destiny. The 
stars preside not over its nativity. Their in- 
fluences have no operation on it ; and the most 
confident astrologers dare not foretell the di- 
verse risks of fortune it must run." 

It is from such considerations, worthy reader, 
that I would fain bespeak thy friendly offices 
at the outset. But, in asking these, I would 
not forestall thy good opinion too far, lest in 
the sequel I should disappoint thy kind wishes. 
I ask only a welcome and God-speed ; hoping, 
that, when thou hast read these pages, thou 
wilt say to me, in the words of Nick Bottom, 
the weaver, " I shall desire you of more ac- 
quaintance, good Master Cobweb." 

Very sincerely thine, 

THE AUTHOR. 
Brunswick, Maine, 1833. 



THE PILGRIM OF OUTRE-MER 



I am a Palmer, as ye se, 

Whiche of my lyfe muche part have spent 

In many a fayre and farre cuntrie, 

As pilgrims do of good intent. 

The Four Ps. 



•^ T YSTEN YTH, ye godely gentylmen, and 
-L-' all that ben hereyn ! " I am a pilgrim be- 
nighted on my way, and crave a shelter till the 
storm is over, and a seat by the fireside in this 
honorable company. As a stranger I claim this 
courtesy at your hands ; and will repay your 
hospitable welcome with tales of the countries 
I have passed through in my pilgrimage. 

This is a custom of the olden time. In the 
days of chivalry and romance, every baron 
bold, perched aloof in his feudal castle, wel- 
comed the stranger to his halls, and listened 
with delight to the pilgrim's tale and the song 
of the troubadour. Both pilgrim and trouba- 
dour had their tales of wonder from a distant 
land, embellished with the magic of Oriental 
exaggeration. Their salutation was, — 



10 The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer 

> " Lordyng lystnith to my tale, 

That is meryer than the nightingale." 

The soft luxuriance of the Eastern clime 
bloomed in the song of the bard ; and the wild 
and romantic tales of regions so far off as to be 
regarded as almost a fairy land were well suited 
to the childish credulity of an .age when what 
is now called the Old World was in its child- 
hood. Those times have passed away. The 
world has grown wiser and less credulous ; and 
the tales which then delighted delight no 
longer. But man has not changed his nature. 
He still retains the same curiosity, the same 
love of novelty, the same fondness for romance 
and tales by the chimney-corner, and the same 
desire of wearing out the rainy day and the 
long winter evening with the illusions of fancy 
and the fairy sketches of the poet's imagina- 
tion. It is as true now as ever, that 

"Off talys, and tryfulles, many man tellys ; 
Sume byn trew, and sume byn ellis ; 
A man may dryfe forthe the day that long tyme dwellis 
Wyth harpyng, and pipyng, and other meiy spellis, 
Wyth gle, and wyth game." 

The Pays d'Outre-Mer, or the Land beyond 
the Sea, is a name by which the pilgrims and 
crusaders of old usually designated the Holy 



The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer ii 

Land I, too, in a certain sense, have been a 
pilgrim of Outre-Mer ; for to my youthful im- 
agination the Old World was a kind of Holy 
Land, lying afar off beyond the blue horizon 
of the ocean ; and when its shores first rose 
upon my sight, looming through the hazy at- 
mosphere of the sea, my heart swelled with the 
deep emotions of the pilgrim, when he sees 
afar the spire which rises above the shrine of 
his devotion. 

In this my pilgrimage, " I have passed many 
lands and countries, and searched many full 
strange places." I have traversed France from 
Normandy to Navarre ; smoked my pipe in a 
Flemish inn ; floated through Holland in a 
Trekschuit ; trimmed my midnight lamp in a 
German university ; wandered and mused amid 
the classic scenes of Italy ; and listened to the 
gay guitar and merry castanet on the borders 
of the blue Guadalquivir. The recollection of 
many of the scenes I have passed through is 
still fresh in my mind ; while the memory of 
others is fast fading away, or is blotted out for- 
ever. But now I will stay the too busy hand 
of time, and call back the shadowy past. Per- 
chance the old and the wise may accuse me of 
frivolity ; but I see in this fair company the 



12 The Pilgrim of Outre-Mer 

bright eye and listening ear of youth, — an age 
less rigid in its censure and more wiUing to be 
pleased. " To gentlewomen and their loves is 
consecrated all the wooing language, allusions 
to love-passions, and sweet embracements 
feigned by the Muse 'mongst hills and rivers ; 
whatsoever tastes of description, battel, story, 
abstruse antiquity, and law of the kingdome, 
to the more severe critic. To the one be con- 
tenting enjoyments of their auspicious desires ; 
to the other, a happy attendance of their 
chosen Muses." * 

And now, fair dames and courteous gentle- 
men, give me attentive audience : — 

" Lordyng lystnith to my tale, 
That is meryer than the nightingale." 

* Selden's Prefatory Discourse to the Notes in Drayton's 
Poly-Olbion. 



THE NORMAN DILIGENCE 



The French guides, otherwise called the postilians, have one most 
diabolicall custome in their travelling upon the wayes. Diabolicall it may 
be well called ; for, whensoever their horses doe a little anger them, they 
will say, in their fury, A lions ^ diable^ — that is, Go, thou divel. This I 
know by mine own experience. 

Coryat's Crudities. 



IT was early in the " leafy month of June " 
that I travelled through the beautiful prov- 
ince of Normandy. As France was the first 
foreign country I visited, everything wore an 
air of freshness and novelty, which pleased my 
eye, and kept my fancy constantly busy. Life 
was like a dream. It was a luxury to breathe 
again the free air, after having been so long 
cooped up at sea ; and, like a long-imprisoned 
bird let loose from its cage, I revelled in the 
freshness and sunshine of the morning land' 
scape. 

On every side, valley and hill were covered 
with a carpet of soft velvet green. The birds 
were singing merrily in the trees, and the land- 
scape wore that look of gayety so well described 
in the quaint language of an old romance, mak- 



14 The Norman Diligence 

ing the " sad, pensive, and aching heart to re- 
joice, and to throw ofif mourning and sadness." 
Here and there a cluster of chestnut-trees 
shaded a thatch-roofed cottage, and little 
patches of vineyard were scattered on the 
slope of the hills, mingling their delicate green 
with the deep hues of the early summer grain. 
The whole landscape had a fresh, breezy look. 
It was not hedged in from the highways, but 
lay open to the eye of the traveller, and seemed 
to welcome him with open arms. I felt less a 
stranger in the land ; and as my eye traced the 
dusty road winding along through a rich culti- 
vated country, skirted on either side with 
blossoming fruit-trees, and occasionally caught 
glimpses of a little farm-house resting in a 
green hollow and lapped in the bosom of plenty, 
I felt that I was in a prosperous, hospitable, 
and happy land. 

I had taken my seat on top of the diligence, 
in order to have a better view of the country. 
It was one of those ponderous vehicles which 
totter slowly along the paved roads of France, 
laboring beneath a mountain of trunks and 
bales of all descriptions ; and^ like the Trojan 
horse, bearing a groaning multitude within it 
It was a curious and cumbersome machine, re* 



The Norma7i Diligence 15 

sembling the bodies of three coaches placed 
upon one carriage, with a cabriolet on top for 
outside passengers. On the panels of each 
door were painted the fleurs-de-lis of France, 
and upon the side of the coach, emblazoned in 
golden characters, " Exploitation Generale des 
Messageries Royales des Diligaices pour le 
Havre y Rotceii^ et Paris!' 

It would be useless to describe the motley 
groups that filled the four quarters of this little 
world. There was the dusty tradesman, with 
green coat and cotton umbrella ; the sallow 
invalid, in skullcap and cloth shoes ; the priest 
in his cassock ; the peasant in his frock ; and 
a whole family of squalling children. My fel- 
low-travellers on top were a gay subaltern, with 
fierce mustache, and a nut-brown village beauty 
of sweet sixteen. The subaltern wore a mil- 
itary undress, and a little blue cloth cap, in the 
shape of a cow-bell, trimmed smartly with sil- 
ver lace, and cocked on one side of his head. 
The brunette was decked out with a staid 
white Norman cap, nicely starched and plaited, 
and nearly three feet high, a rosary and cross 
about her neck, a linsey-woolsey gown, and 
wooden shoes. 

The personage who seemed to rule this little 



t6 The Norman Diligence 

world with absolute sway was a short, pursy 
man, with a busy, self-satisfied air, and the 
sonorous title of Moftsieur le Co7iducteiir. As 
insignia of office, he wore a little round fur cap 
and fur-trimmed jacket ; and carried in his 
hand a small leathern portfolio, containing his 
way-bill. He sat with us on top of the dili- 
gence, and with comic gravity issued his man- 
dates to the postilion below, like some petty 
monarch speaking from his throne. In every 
dingy village we thundered through, he had a 
thousand commissions to execute and to re- 
ceive ; a package to throw out on this side, 
and another to take in on that ; a whisper for 
the landlady at the inn ; a love-letter and a 
kiss for her daughter ; and a wink or a snap of 
his fingers for the chambermaid at the window. 
Then there were so many questions to be asked 
and answered, while changing horses ! Every- 
body had a word to say. It was Monsieur le 
Condiccteur ! here; Monsieur le Conducteur ! 
there. He was in complete bustle ; till at length 
crying, En route ! he ascended the dizzy height, 
and we lumbered away in a cloud of dust. 

But what most attracted my attention was 
the grotesque appearance of the postilion and 
the horsea He was a comical-looking little 



The Norman Diligence 17 

fellow, already past the heyday of life, with a 
thin, sharp countenance, to which the smoke 
of tobacco and the fumes of wine had given 
the dusty look of parchment. He was equipped 
in a short jacket of purple velvet, set off with 
a red collar, and adorned with silken cord. 
Tight breeches of bright yellow leather arrayed 
his pipe-stem legs, which were swallowed up 
in a huge pair of wooden boots, iron-fastened, 
and armed with long, rattling spurs. His 
shirt-collar was of vast dimensions, and be- 
tween it and the broad brim of his high, bell- 
crowned, varnished hat, projected an eel-skin 
queue, with a little tuft of frizzled hair, like a 
powder-puff, at the end, bobbing up and down 
with the motion of the rider, and scattering a 
white cloud around him. 

The horses which drew the diligence were 
harnessed to it with ropes and leather thongs, 
in the most uncouth manner imaginable. They 
were five in number, black, white, and gray, — 
as various in size as in color. Their tails were 
braided and tied up with wisps of straw ; and 
when the postilion mounted and cracked his 
heavy whip, off they started : one pulling this 
way, another that, — one on the gallop, another 
trotting, and the rest dragging along at a scram- 



1 8 The Norman Diligence 

bling pace, between a trot and a walk. No 
sooner did the vehicle get comfortably in mo- 
tion, than the postilion, throwing the reins 
upon his horse's neck, and drawing a flint and 
steel from one pocket and a short-stemmed 
pipe from another, leisurely struck fire, and 
began to smoke. Ever and anon some part of 
the rope-harness would give way ; Monsieur le 
CondiLcteitr from on high would thunder forth 
an oath or two ; a head would be popped out 
at every window ; half a dozen voices exclaim 
at once, " What 's the matter } " and the pos- 
tilion, apostrophizing the diable as usual, would 
thrust his long whip into the leg of his boot, 
leisurely dismount, and, drawing a handful of 
packthread from his pocket, quietly set himself 
to mend matters in the best way possible. 

In this manner we toiled slowly along the 
dusty highway. Occasionally the scene was 
enlivened by a group of peasants, driving before 
them a little ass, laden with vegetables for a 
neighboring market. Then w^e would pass a 
solitary shepherd, sitting by the road-side, with 
a shaggy dog at his feet, guarding his flock, 
and making his scanty meal on the contents of 
his wallet ; or perchance a little peasant girl, 
in wooden shoes, leading a cow by a cord at- 



The Norman Diligence 19 

tached to her horns, to browse along the side 
of the ditch. Then we would all alight to as- 
cend some formidable hill on foot, and be es- 
corted up by a clamorous group of sturdy 
mendicants, — annoyed by the ceaseless impor- 
tunity of worthless beggary, or moved to pity 
by the palsied limbs of the aged, and the sight- 
less eyeballs of the blind. 

Occasionally, too^ the postilion drew up in 
front of a dingy little cabaret, completely over- 
shadowed by wide-spreading trees. A lusty 
grape-vine clambered up beside the door ; and 
a pine-bough was thrust out from a hole in the 
wall, by way of tavern-bush. Upon the front 
of the house was generally inscribed in large 
black letters, " Ici on donne a boire et a 

MANGER ; ON LOGE A PIED ET A CHEVAL " ; a 

sign which may be thus paraphrased, — " Good 
entertainment for man and beast " ; but which 
was once translated by a foreigner, " Here they 
give to eat and drink; they lodge on foot and 
on horseback ! " 

Thus one object of curiosity succeeded an- 
other ; hill, valley, stream, and woodland flitted 
by me like the shifting scenes of a magic lan- 
tern, and one train of thought gave place to 
another ; till at length, in the after part of the 



20 The Norman Diligence 

day, we entered the broad and shady avenue 
of fine old trees which leads to the western 
gate of Rouen, and a few moments afterward 
were lost in the crowds and confusion of its 
narrow streets. 



THE GOLDEN LION INN 



Monsieur Vinot, Je veux absolument un Lion I'Or ; parce qu*on dit, 
OA allez-vous? Au Lion d'Or ! — D'ou venez-vous? Du Liond'Or! — 
Ou irons-nous ? Au Lion d'Or ! — Ou y a-t-il de bon vin ? Au Lion d'Or I 

La Rose Rouge. 



THIS answer of Monsieur Vinot must have 
been running in my head as the dihgence 
stopped at the Messagerie ; for when the por- 
ter, who took my luggage, said : — 

" Ou allez-vous y Monsietcr ? " 

I answered, without reflection (for, be it said 
with all the veracity of a traveller, at that time 
I did not know there was a Golden Lion in the 
city), — 

" Ate Lion (TOrr 

And so to the Lion d'Or we went. 

The hostess of the Golden Lion received me 
with a courtesy and a smile, rang the house- 
bell for a servant, and told him to take the 
gentleman's things to number thirty-five. I 
followed him up stairs. One, two, three, four, 
five, six, seven ! Seven stories high, by Our 
Lady ! — I counted them every one ; and when 



22 The Golden Lio7i Inn 

I went down to remonstrate, I counted them 
again ; so that there was no possibility of a 
mistake. When I asked for a lower room, the 
hostess told me the house was full ; and when 
I spoke of going to another hotel, she said she 
should be so very sorry, so desoleey to have 
Monsieur leave her, that I marched up again to 
number thirty-five. 

After finding all the fault I could with the 
chamber, I ended, as is generally the case with 
most men on such occasions, by being very well 
pleased with it. The only thing I could possu 
bly complain of was my being lodged in the 
seventh story, and in the immediate neighbor- 
hood of a gentleman who was learning to play 
the French horn. . But to remunerate me for 
these disadvantages, my window looked down 
into a market-place, and gave me a distant view 
of the towers of the cathedral, and the ruins 
of the church and abbey of St. Ouen. 

When I had fully prepared myself for a ram- 
ble through the city, it was already sunset ; 
and after the heat and dust of the day, the 
freshness of the long evening twilight was de- 
lightful. When I enter a new city, I cannot 
rest till I have satisfied the first cravings of 
curiosity by rambling through its streets. Nor 



The Golden Lion Inn 23 

can I endure a cicerone, with his eternal " This 
way, Sir." I never desire to be led directly to 
an object worthy of a traveller s notice, but 
prefer a thousand times to find my own way, 
and come upon it by surprise. This was par-* 
ticularly the case at Rouen. It was the first 
European city of importance that I visited. 
There was an air of antiquity about the whole 
city that breathed of the Middle Ages ; and 
so strong and delightful was the impression 
that it made upon my youthful imagination, 
that nothing which I afterward saw could 
either equal or efface it. I have since passed 
through that city, but I did not stop. I was 
unwilling to destroy an impression which, even 
at this distant day, is as fresh upon my mind 
as if it were of yesterday. 

With these delightful feelings I rambled on 
from street to street, till at length, after thread- 
ing a narrow alley, I unexpectedly came out in 
front of the magnificent cathedral. If it had 
suddenly risen from the earth, the effect could 
not have been more powerful and instantane- 
ous. It completely overwhelmed my imagina- 
tion ; and I stood for a long time motionless, 
gazing entranced upon the stupendous edifice. 
I had before seen no specimen of Gothic archi- 



24 The Golden Lion Inn 

tecture ; and the massive towers before me, the 
lofty windows of stained glass, the low portal, 
with its receding arches and rude statues, all 
produced upon my untravelled mind an im- 
pression of awful sublimity. When I entered 
the church, the impression was still more deep 
and solemn. It was the hour of vespers. The 
religious twilight of the place, the lamps that 
burned on the distant altar, the kneeling crowd, 
the tinkling bell, and the chant of the evening 
service that rolled along the vaulted roof in 
broken and repeated echoes, filled me with 
new and intense emotions. When I gazed on 
the stupendous architecture of the church, the 
huge columns that the eye followed up till 
they were lost in the gathering dusk of the 
arches above, the long and shadowy aisles, the 
statues of saints and martyrs that stood in 
every recess, the figures of armed knights upon 
the tombs, the uncertain light that stole through 
the painted windows of each little chapel, and 
the form of the cowled and solitary monk, 
kneeling at the shrine of his favorite saint, or 
passing between the lofty columns of the 
church, — all I had read of, but had not seen, 
— I was transported back to the Dark Ages, 
and felt as I can never feel again. 



The Golden Lion Inn 25 

On the following day, I visited the remains 
of an old palace, built by Edward the Third, 
now occupied as the Palais de Justice, and the 
ruins of the church and monastery of Saint 
Antoine. I saw the hole in the tower where 
. the ponderous bell of the abbey fell through ; 
and took a peep at the curious illuminated 
manuscript of Daniel d'Aubonne in the pub- 
lic library. The remainder of the morning 
was spent in visiting the ruins of the ancient 
abbey of St. Ouen, which is now transformed 
into the Hotel de Ville, and in strolling through 
its beautiful gardens, dreaming of the present 
and the past, and given up to " a melancholy 
of my own." 

At the Table dHote of the Golden Lion, I 
fell into conversation with an elderly gentle- 
man, who proved to be a great antiquarian, 
and thoroughly read in all the forgotten lore 
of the city. As our tastes were somewhat sim- 
ilar, we were soon upon very friendly terms ; 
and after dinner we strolled out to visit some 
remarkable localities, and took the gloria to- 
gether at the Chevalier Bayard. 

When we returned to the Golden Lion, he 
entertained me with many curious stories of 
the spots we had been visiting. Among others, 



26 The Golden Lion Inn 

he related the following singular adventure of 
a monk of the abbey of St. Antoine, which 
amused me so much that I cannot refrain from 
presenting it to my readers. I will not, how- 
ever, vouch for the truth of the story ; for that 
the antiquarian himself would not do. He* 
said he found it in an ancient manuscript of 
the Middle Ages, in the archives of the public 
library ; and I give it as it was told me, with- 
out note or comment 



MARTIN FRANC AND THE MONK 
OF SAINT ANTHONY* 

Seignor, oiez une merveille, 
C'onques n'oistes sa pareille, 
Que je vos vueil dire et conter; 
Or metez cuer a I'escouter. 

Fabliau du Bouchier d'Abbeviixb 

Lystyn Lordyngs to my tale, 

And ye shall here of one story, 
Is better than any wyne or ale, 

That ever was made in this cuntry. 

Ancient Metrical Romance. 

IN times of old, there lived in the city of 
Rouen a tradesman named Martin Franc, 
who, by a series of misfortunes, had been re- 
duced from opulence to poverty. But poverty, 
which generally makes men humble and labori- 

* The outlines of the following tale were taken from a Nor- 
man Fabliau of the thirteenth century, entitled Le Segretain 
Mohie, To judge by the numerous imitations of this story 
which still exist in old Norman poetry, it seems to have been 
a prodigious favorite of its day, and to have passed through 
as many hands as did the body of Friar Gui. It probably had 
its origin in "The Story of the Little Hunchback," a tale of 
the Arabian Nights ; and in modem times has been imitated 
in the poetic tale of "The Knight and the Friar," by George 
Colman. 



28 Martin Franc and 

ous, only served to make him proud and lazy ; 
and in proportion as he grew poorer and poorer, 
he grew also prouder and lazier. He contrived, 
however, to live along from day to day, by now 
and then pawning a silken robe of his wife, 
or selling a silver spoon, or some other trifle, 
saved from the wreck of his better fortunes ; 
and passed his time pleasantly enough in loi- 
tering about the market-place, and walking up 
and down on the sunny side of the street. 

The fair Marguerite, his wife, was celebrated 
through the whole city for her beauty, her wit, 
and her virtue. She was a brunette, with the 
blackest eye, the whitest teeth, and the ripest 
nut-brown cheek in all Normandy ; her figure 
was tall and stately, her hands and feet most 
delicately moulded, and her swimming gait 
like the motion of a swan. In happier days 
she had been the delight of the richest trades- 
men in the city, and the envy of the fairest 
dames. 

The friends of Martin Franc, like the friends 
of many a ruined man before and since, de- 
serted him in the day of adversity. Of all 
that had eaten his dinners, and drunk his wine, 
and flattered his wife, none sought the narrow 
alley and humble dwelling of the broken trades- 



The Monk of St. Anthony 29 

man save one, and that one was Friar Gui, the 
sacristan of the abbey of St. Anthony. He 
was a Httle, jolly, red-faced friar, with a leer in 
his eye, and rather a doubtful reputation ; but 
as he was a kind of travelling gazette, and al- 
ways brought the latest news and gossip of the 
city, and besides was the only person that con- 
descended to visit the house of Martin Franc^ 
— in fine, for the want of a better, he was con- 
sidered in the light of a friend. 

In these constant assiduities, Friar Gui had 
his secret motives, of which the single heart 
of Martin Franc was entirely unsuspicious. 
The keener eye of his wife, however, soon dis- 
covered two faces under the hood ; but she 
persevered in misconstruing the friar's inten- 
tions, and in dexterously turning aside any ex- 
pressions of gallantry that fell from his lips. 
In this way Friar Gui was for a long time kept 
at bay ; and Martin Franc preserved in the 
day of poverty and distress that consolation 
of all this world's afflictions, — a friend. But, 
finally, things came to such a pass, that the 
honest tradesman opened his eyes, and won- 
dered he had been asleep so long. Whereupon 
he was irreverent enough to thrust Friar Gui 
into the street by the shoulders. 



30 Martin Franc aTid 

Meanwhile the times grew worse and worse. 
One family relic followed another, — the last 
silken robe was pawned, the last silver spoon 
sold ; until at length poor Martin Franc was 
forced to " drag the devil by the tail " ; in 
other words, beggary stared him full in the 
face. But the fair Marguerite did not even 
then despair. In those days a belief in the 
immediate guardianship of the saints was much 
more strong and prevalent than in these lewd 
and degenerate times ; and as there seemed no 
great probability of improving their condition 
by any lucky change which could be brought 
ibout by mere human agency, she determined 
to try what could be done by intercession with 
the patron saint of her husband. Accordingly 
she repaired one evening to the abbey of St. 
Anthony, to place a votive candle and offer 
her prayer at the altar, which stood in the little 
chapel dedicated to St. Martin. 

It was already sunset when she reached the 
church, and the evening service of the Virgin 
had commenced. A cloud of incense floated 
before the altar of the Madonna, and the organ 
rolled its deep melody along the dim arches of 
the church. Marguerite mingled with the 
kneeling crowd, and repeated the responses in 



The Monk of St. Anthony 31 

Latin, with as much devotion as the most 
learned clerk of the convent. When the ser- 
vice was over, she repaired to the chapel of St. 
Martin, and, lighting her votive taper at the 
silver lamp which burned before his altar, knelt 
down in a retired part of the chapel, and, with 
tears in her eyes, besought the saint for aid 
and protection. While she was thus engaged, 
the church became gradually deserted, till she 
was left, as she thought, alone. But in this 
she was mistaken ; for, when she arose to de- 
part, the portly figure of Friar Gui was stand- 
ing close at her elbow ! 

"Good evening, fair Marguerite," said he. 
" St. Martin has heard your prayer, and sent 
me to relieve your poverty.'' 

"Then," replied she, " the good saint is not 
very fastidious in the choice of his messen- 
gers." 

"Nay, goodwife," answered the friar, not at 
all abashed by this ungracious reply, "if the 
tidings are good, what matters it who the mes- 
senger may be } And how does Martin Franc 
these days } " 

"He is well," replied Marguerite ; " and 
were he present, I doubt not would thank you 
heartily for the interest you still take in him 
and his poor wife." 



32 Martin Franc and 

''He has done me wrong," continued the 
friar. " But it is our duty to forgive our en- 
emies ; and so let the past be forgotten. I 
know that he is in want. Here, take this to 
him, and tell him I am still his friend." 

So saying, he drew a small purse from the 
sleeve of his habit, and proffered it to his com- 
panion. I know not whether it were a sug- 
gestion of St. Martin, but true it. is that the 
fair wife of Martin Franc seemed to lend a 
more willing ear to the earnest whispers of the 
friar. At length she said, — 

"Put up your purse; to-day I can neither 
deliver your gift nor your message. Martin 
Franc has gone from home.'' 

**Then keep it for yourself." 

"Nay," replied Marguerite, casting down 
her eyes ; " I can take no bribes here in the 
church, and in the very chapel of my hus- 
band's patron saint. You shall bring it to me 
at my house, if you will." 

The friar put up the purse, and the conver- 
sation which followed was in a low and indis- 
tinct undertone, audible only to the ears for 
which it was intended. At length the inter- 
view ceased ; and — O woman ! — the last 
words that the virtuous Marguerite uttered, as 
she glided from the church, were, — 



"fhe Monk of St. Anthony 33 

*' To-night ; — when the abbey-clock strikes 
twelve ; — remember ! " 

It would be useless to relate how impatiently 
the friar counted the hours and the quarters 
as they chimed from the ancient tower of the 
abbey, while he paced to and fro along the 
gloomy cloister. At length the appointed 
hour approached ; and just before the con- 
vent-bell sent forth its summons to call the 
friars of St. Anthony to their midnight de- 
votions, a figure, with a cowl, stole out of a 
postern-gate, and passing silently along the 
deserted streets, soon turned into the little 
alley which led to the dwelling of Martin 
Franc. It was none other than Friar Gui. 
He rapped softly at the tradesman's door, and 
casting a look up and down the street, as if to 
assure himself that his motions were unob- 
served, slipped into the house. 

" Has Martin Franc returned } " inquired he 
in a whisper. 

*' No," answered the sweet voice of his wife ; 
" he will not be back to-night." 

" Then all good angels befriend us ! " con- 
tinued the monk, endeavoring to take her 
hand. 

" Not so, good monk," said she, disengaging 



34 Martin Franc and 

herself. "You forget the conditions of our 
meeting." 

The friar paused a moment ; and then, 
drawing a heavy leathern purse from his gir- 
dle, he threw it upon the table ; at the same 
moment a footstep was heard behind him, and 
a heavy blow from a club threw him prostrate 
upon the floor. It came from the strong arm 
of Martin Franc himself! 

It is hardly necessary to say that his absence 
was feigned. His wife had invented the story 
to decoy the monk, and thereby to keep her 
husband from beggary, and to relieve herself, 
once for all, from the importunities of a false 
friend. At first Martin Franc would not listen 
to the proposition ; but at length he yielded 
to the urgent entreaties of his wife ; and the 
plan finally agreed upon was, that Friar Gui, 
after leaving his purse behind him, should be 
sent back to the convent with a severer disci- 
pline than his shoulders had ever received 
from any penitence of his own. 

The affair, however, took a more serious 
turn than was intended ; for, when they tried 
to raise the friar from the ground, — he was 
dead. The blow aimed at his shoulders fell 
upon his shaven crown ; and, in the excite- 



The Monk of St. Anthony 35 

ment of the moment, Martin Franc had dealt 
a heavier stroke than he intended. Amid the 
grief and consternation which followed this 
discovery, the quick imagination of his wife 
suggested an expedient of safety. A bunch 
of keys at the friar s girdle caught her eye. 
Hastily unfastening the ring, she gave the 
keys to her husband, exclaiming, — 

" For the holy Virgin's sake, be quick ! One 
of these keys doubtless unlocks the gate of the 
convent-garden. Carry the body thither, and 
leave it among the trees ! " 

Martin Franc threw the dead body of the 
monk across his shoulders, and with a heavy 
heart took the way to the abbey. It was a 
clear, starry night ; and though the moon had 
not yet risen, her light was in the sky, ai?d 
came reflected down in a soft twilight upon 
earth. Not a sound was heard through all the 
long and solitary streets, save at intervals the 
distant crowing of a cock, or the melancholy 
hoot of an owl from the lofty tower of the 
abbey. The silence weighed like an accusing 
spirit upon the guilty conscience of Martin 
Franc. He started at the sound of his own 
breathing, as he panted under the heavy bur- 
den of the monk's body ; and if, perchance, a 



36 Martin Franc and 

bat flitted near him on drowsy wings, he 
paused, and his heart beat audibly with terror, 
At length he reached the garden-wall of the 
abbey, opened the postern-gate with the key, 
and bearing the monk into the garden, seated 
him upon a stone bench by the edge of the 
fountain, with his head resting against a col- 
umn, upon which was sculptured an image of 
the Madonna. He then replaced the bunch 
of keys at the monk's girdle, and returned 
home with hasty steps. 

When the prior of the convent, to whom the 
repeated delinquencies of Friar Gui were but 
too well known, observed that he was again 
absent from his post at midnight prayers, he 
waxed exceedingly angry ; and no sooner were 
the duties of the chapel finished, than he sent 
a monk in pursuit of the truant sacristan, sum- 
moning him to appear immediately at his cell. 
By chance it happened that the monk chosen 
for this duty was an enemy of Friar Gui ; and 
very shrewdly supposing that the sacristan had 
stolen out of the garden-gate on some mid- 
night adventure, he took that direction in pur- 
suit. The moon was just climbing the con- 
vent-wall, and threw its silvery light through 
the trees of the garden, and on the sparkling 



The Monk of St. Anthony 37 

waters of the fountain, that fell with a soft 
lulling sound into the deep basin below. As 
the monk passed on his way, he stopped to 
quench his thirst with a draught of the cool 
water, and was turning to depart, when his 
eye caught the motionless form of the sacris- 
tan, sitting erect in the shadow of the stone 
column. 

" How is this. Friar Gui } " quoth the monk. 
" Is this a place to be sleeping at midnight, 
when the brotherhood are all at their prayers?" 

Friar Gui made no answer. 

" Up, up ! thou eternal sleeper, and do pen- 
ance for thy negligence. The prior calls for 
thee at his cell ! " continued the monk, grow- 
ing angry, and shaking the sacristan by the 
shoulder. 

But still no answer. 

" Then, by Saint Anthony, I '11 wake thee ! " 

And saying this, he dealt the sacristan a 
heavy box on the ear. The body bent slowly 
forward from its erect position, and, giving a 
headlong plunge, sank with a heavy splash in- 
to the basin of the fountain. The monk waited 
a few moments in expectation of seeing Friar 
Gui rise dripping from his cold bath ; but he 
waited in vain ; for he lay motionless at the 



38 Martin Franc and 

bottom of the basin, — his eyes open, and his 
ghastly face distorted by the ripples of the 
water. With a beating heart the monk stooped 
down, and, grasping the skirt of the sacristan's 
habit, at length succeeded in drawing him 
from the water. All efforts, however, to re- 
suscitate him were unavailing. The monk 
was filled with terror, not doubting that the 
friar had died untimely by his hand ; and as 
the animosity between them was no secret in 
the convent, he feared that, when the deed 
was known, he should be accused of murder. 
He therefore looked round for an expedient 
to relieve himself from the dead body ; and 
the well-known character of the sacristan soon 
suggested one. He determined to carry the 
body to the house of the most noted beauty of 
Rouen, and leave it on the door-step ; so that 
all suspicion of the murder might fall upon the 
shoulders of some jealous husband. The 
beauty of Martin Franc's wife had penetrat- 
ed even the thick walls of the convent, and 
there was not a friar in the whole abbey of 
Saint Anthony who had not done penance for 
his truant imagination. Accordingly, the dead 
body of Friar Gui was laid upon the monk's 
brawny shoulders, carried back to the house 



The Monk of St. Antho7iy 39 

of Martin Franc, and placed in an erect posi- 
tion against the door. The monk knocked 
loud and long ; and then, gliding through a 
by-lane, stole back to the convent. 

A troubled cons^cience would not suffer 
Martin Franc and his wife to close their eyes ; 
but they lay awake lamenting the doleful 
events of the night. The knock at the door 
sounded like a death-knell in their ears. It 
still continued at intervals, rap — rap — rap! 
— with a dull, low sound, as if something 
heavy were swinging against the panel ; for 
the wind had risen during the night, and every 
angry gust that swept down the alley swung 
the arms of the lifeless sacristan against the 
door. At length Martin Franc mustered 
courage enough to dress himself and go down, 
while his wife followed him with a lamp in her 
hand : but no sooner had he lifted the latch, 
than the ponderous body of Friar Gui fell 
stark and heavy into his arms. 

" Jesu Maria !" exclaimed Marguerite, cross- 
ing herself ; " here is the monk again ! " 

"Yes, and dripping wet, as if he had just 
been dragged out of the river ! '* 

" O, we are betrayed ! " exclaimed Margue- 
rite in agony. 



40 Martin F^^anc and 

"Then the Devil himself has betrayed us,** 
replied Martin Franc, disengaging himself 
from the embrace of the sacristan ; " for I met 
not a living being ; the whole city was as si- 
lent as the grave." 

" Saint Martin defend us ! " continued his 
terrified wife. " Here, take this scapulary to 
guard you from the Evil One ; and lose no 
time. You must throw the body into the 
river, or we are lost ! Holy Virgin ! How 
bright the moon shines ! " 

Saying this, she threw round his neck a 
scapulary, with the figure of a cross on one 
end, and an image of the Virgin on the other ; 
and Martin Franc again took the dead friar 
upon his shoulders, and with fearful misgivings 
departed on his dismal errand. He kept as 
much as possible in the shadow of the houses, 
and had nearly reached the quay, when sud- 
denly he thought he heard footsteps behind 
him. He stopped to listen ; it was no vain 
imagination ; they came along the pavement, 
tramp, tramp ! and every step grew louder 
and nearer. Martin Franc tried to quicken 
his. pace, — but in vain : his knees smote to- 
gether, and he staggered against the wall 
His hand relaxed its grasp, and the monk slid 



The Monk of St. Anthony 41 

from his back and stood ghastly and straight 
beside him, supported by chance against the 
shoulder of his bearer. At that moment a 
man came round the corner, tottering beneath 
the weight of a huge sack. As his head was 
bent downwards, he did not perceive Martin 
Franc till he was close upon him ; and when, 
on looking up, he saw two figures standing 
motionless in the shadow of the wall, he 
thought himself waylaid, and, without waiting 
to be assaulted, dropped the sack from his 
shoulders and ran off at full speed. The sack 
fell heavily on the pavement, and directly at 
the feet of Martin Franc. In the fall the 
string was broken ; and out came the bloody 
head, not of a dead monk, as it first seemed to 
the excited imagination of Martin Franc, but 
of a dead hog ! When the terror and surprise 
caused by this singular event had a little sub- 
sided, an idea came into the mind of Martin 
Franc, very similar to what would have come 
into the mind of almost any person in similar 
circumstances. He took the hog out of the 
sack, and putting the body of the monk into 
its place, secured it well with the remnants of 
the broken string, and tnen hurried homeward 
with the animal upon his shoulders. 



42 Martin Franc and 

He was hardly out of sight when the man 
with the sack returned, accompanied by two 
others. They were surprised to find the sack 
still lying on the ground, with no one near it, 
and began to jeer the former bearer, telUng 
him he had been frightened at his own shadow 
on the wall. Then one of them took the sack 
upon his shoulders, without the least suspicion 
of the change that had been made in its con- 
tents, and all three disappeared. 

Now it happened that the city of Rouen 
was at that time infested by three street rob- 
bers, who walked in darkness like the pesti- 
lence, and always carried the plunder of their 
midnight marauding to the Tete-de-Boeuf, a 
little tavern in one of the darkest and narrow- 
est lanes of the city. The host of the Tete- 
de-Boeuf was privy to all their schemes, and 
had an equal share in the profits of their night- 
ly excursions. He gave a helping hand, too, 
by the length of his bills, and by plundering 
the pockets of any chance traveller that was 
luckless enough to sleep under his roof. 

On the night of the disastrous adventure 
of Friar Gui, this little marauding party had 
been prowling about the city until a late hour, 
without finding anything to reward their la/- 



The Monk of St Anthony 43 

bors. At length, however, they chanced to 
spy a hog, hanging under a shed in a butcher's 
yard, in readiness for the next day's market ; 
and as they were not very fastidious in select- 
ing their plunder, but, on the contrary, rather 
addicted to taking whatever they could lay 
their hands on, the hog was straightway pur- 
loined, thrust into a large sack, and sent to the 
Tete-de-Boeuf on the shoulders of one of the 
party, while the other two continued their noc- 
turnal excursion. It was this person who had 
been so terrified at the appearance of Martin 
Franc and the dead monk ; and as this en- 
counter had interrupted any further operations 
of the party, the dawn of day being now near 
at hand they all repaired to their gloomy den 
in the Tete-de-Boeuf. The host was impa- 
tiently waiting their return ; and, asking what 
plunder they had brought with them, pro- 
ceeded without delay to remove it from the 
sack. The first thing that presented itself, on 
untying the string, was the monk's hood. 

*' The devil take the devil !" cried the host, 
as he opened the neck of the sack ; " what's 
this 1 Your hog wears a cowl ! " 

** The poor devil has become disgusted with 
the world, and turned monk ! " saicj he who 



44 Martin Prafic and 

held the light, a little surprised at seeing the 
head covered with a coarse gray cloth. 

" Sure enough he has," exclaimed another, 
starting back in dismay, as the shaven crown 
and ghastly face of the friar appeared. " Holy 
St. Benedict be with us ! It is a monk stark 
dead ! " 

" A dead monk, indeed ! " said a third, with 
an incredulous shake of the head ; " how could 
a dead monk get into this sack } No, no ; 
there is some sorcery in this. I have heard 
it said that Satan can take any shape he 
pleases ; and you may rely upon it this is 
Satan himself, who has taken the shape of a 
monk to get us all hanged." 

"Then we had better kill the devil than 
have the devil kill us ! " replied the host, cross- 
ing himself ; " and the sooner we do it the 
better ; for it is now daylight, and the people 
will soon be passing in the street." 

"So say I," rejoined the man of magic; 
''and my advice is, to take him to the butcher's 
yard, and hang him up in the place where we 
found the hog." 

This proposition so pleased the others that 
it was executed without delay. They carried 
the friar to the butcher's house, and, passing a 



The Monk of St. Anthony 45 

strong cord round his neck, suspended him 
to a beam in the shed, and there left 
him. 

When the night was at length past, and day* 
light began to peep into the eastern windows 
of the city, the butcher arose, and prepared 
himself for market. He was casting up in his 
mind what the hog would bring at his stall, 
when, looking upward, lo ! in its place he rec- 
ognized the dead body of Friar Gui. 

"By St. Denis!" quoth the butcher, "I 
always feared that this friar would not die 
quietly in his cell ; but I never thought I 
should find him hanging under my own roof. 
This must not be ; it will be said that I mur- 
dered him, and I shall pay for it with my life. 
I must contrive some way to get rid of him." 

So saying, he called his man, and, showing 
him what had been done, asked him how he 
should dispose of the body so that he might 
not be accused of murder. The man who was 
of a ready wit, reflected a moment, and then 
answered, — 

"This is indeed a difficult matter; but there 
is no evil without its remedy. We will place 
the friar on horseback — " 

" What ! a dead man on horseback t — im- 



46 Martin Franc and 

possible ! " interrupted the butcher. " Who 
ever heard of a dead man on horseback ! " 

'* Hear me out, and then judge. We must 
place the body on horseback as well as we 
may, and bind it fast with cords ; and then 
set the horse loose in the street, and pursue 
him, crying out that the monk has stolen the 
horse. Thus all who meet him will strike him 
with their staves as he passes, and it will be 
thought that he came to his death in that way." 

Though this seemed to the butcher rather a 
mad project, yet, as no better one offered itself 
at the moment, and there was no time for re- 
flection, mad as the project was, they deter- 
mined to put it into execution. Accordingly 
the butcher s horse was brought out, and the 
friar was bound upon his back, and with much 
difficulty fixed in an upright position. The 
butcher then gave the horse a blow upon the 
crupper with his staff, which set him into a 
smart gallop down the street, and he and his 
man joined in pursuit, crying, — 

"Stop thief! Stop thief! The friar has 
stolen my horse ! " 

As it was now sunrise, the streets were full 
of people, — peasants driving their goods to 
market, and citizens going to their daily avo- 



The Monk of St. Anthony 47 

cations. When they saw the friar dashing at 
full speed down the street, they joined in the 
cry of " Stop thief ! — Stop thief ! " and -many 
who endeavored to seize the bridle, as the friar 
passed them at full speed, were thrown upon 
the pavement, and trampled under foot ; others 
joined in the halloo and the pursuit ; but this 
only served to quicken the gallop of the fright- 
ened steed, who dashed down one street and 
up another like the wind, with two or three 
mounted citizens clattering in full cry at his 
heels. At length they reached the market- 
place. The people scattered right and left in 
dismay ; and the steed and rider dashed on- 
ward, overthrowing in their course men and 
women, and stalls, and piles of merchandise, 
and sweeping away like a whirlwind. Tramp 
— tramp — tramp ! they clattered on ; they 
had distanced all pursuit. They reached the 
quay ; the wide pavement was cleared at a 
bound, — one more wild leap, — and splash ! — 
both horse and rider sank into the rapid cur- 
rent of the river, — swept down the stream, — 
and were seen no more ! 



THE VILLAGE OF AUTEUIL 



II n*est lei plaisir 
Que d'estre i gesir 
Parmy les beaux champs, 
L'herbe verde choisir, 
Et prendre bon temps. 

Martial D'Auvergnb, 



THE sultry heat of summer always brings 
with it, to the idler and the man of lei- 
sure, a longing for the leafy shade and the 
green luxuriance of the country. It is pleas- 
ant to interchange the din of the city, the 
movement of the crowd, and the gossip of so- 
ciety, with the silence of the hamlet, the quiet 
seclusion of the grove^ and the gossip of a 
woodland brook. As is sung in the old ballad 
of Robin Hood, — 

** In somer, when the shawes be sheyn. 
And leves be large and long, 
Hit is full mery in feyre foreste, 

To here the foulys song ; 
To sc tlie dere draw to the dale 

And leve the hilles hee, 
And shadow hem in the leves grenc, 
Vnder the grene wode tre. " 



The Village of Auteuil 49 

It was a feeling of this kind that prompted 
me, during my residence in the North of 
France, to pass one of the summer months at 
Auteuil, the pleasantest of the many httle vil- 
lages that lie in the immediate vicinity of the 
metropolis. It is situated on the outskirts of 
the Bois de Boulogne, a wood of some extent, 
in whose green alleys the dusty cit enjoys the 
luxury of an evening drive, and gentlemen 
meet in the morning to give each other satis- 
faction in the usual way. A cross-road, skirted 
with green hedge-rows, and overshadowed by 
tall poplars, leads you from the noisy highway 
of St. Cloud and Versailles to the still retire- 
ment of this suburban hamlet. On either side 
the eye discovers old chateaux amid the trees, 
and green parks, whose pleasant shades recall 
a thousand images of La Fontaine, Racine, 
and Moliere ; and on an eminence, overlooking 
the windings of the Seine, and giving a beauti- 
ful though distant view of the domes and gar- 
dens of Paris, rises the village of Passy, long 
the residence of our countrymen Franklin and 
Count Rumford. 

I took up my abode at a inaiso7t de sanie; 
not that I was a valetudinarian, but because I 
there found some one to whom I could whis- 
J i> 



50 The Village of Auteuil 

per, " How sweet is solitude ! " Behind the 
house was a garden filled with fruit-trees of 
various kinds, and adorned with gravel-walks 
and green arbors, furnished with tables and 
rustic seats, for th« repose of the invalid and 
the sleep of the indolent. Here the inmates 
of the rural hospital met on common ground, 
to breathe the invigorating air of morning, 
and while away the lazy noon or vacant even- 
ing with tales of the sick-chamber. 

The establishment was kept by Dr. Dentde- 
lion, a dried-up little fellow, with red hair, a 
sandy complexion, and the physiognomy and 
gestures of a monkey. His character corre- 
sponded to his outward lineaments ; for he had 
all a monkey's busy and curious impertinence. 
Nevertheless, such as he was, the village -^s- 
culapius strutted forth the little great man of 
Auteuil. The peasants looked up to him as to 
an oracle ; he contrived to be at the head of 
everything, and laid claim to the credit of all 
public improvements in the village ; in fine, he 
was a great man on a small scale. 

It was within the dingy walls of this little 
potentate's imperial palace that I chose my 
country residence. I had a chamber in the 
second story, with a solitaiT window, which 



Tlie Village of Auteuil 51 

looked upon the street, and gave me a peep 
into a neighbor s garden. This I esteemed a 
great privilege ; for, as a stranger, I desired 
to see all that was passing out of doors ; and 
the sight of green trees, though growing on 
another's ground, is always a blessing. With- 
in doors — had I been disposed to quarrel with 
my household gods — I might huve taken some 
objection to my neighborhood ; for, on one 
side of me was a consumptive patient, whose 
graveyard cough drove me from my chamber 
by day ; and on the other, an English colonel, 
whose incoherent ravings, in the delirium of a 
high and obstinate fever, often broke my slum- 
bers by night ; but I found ample amends for 
these inconveniences in the society of those 
who were so little indisposed as hardly to 
know what ailed them, and those who, in 
health themselves, had accompanied a friend 
or relative to the shades of the country i.n pur- 
suit of it. To these I am indebted for much 
courtesy ; and particularly to one who, if these 
pages should ever meet her eye, will not, I 
hope, be unwilling to accept this slight memo- 
rial of a former friendship. 

It was, however, to the Bois de Boulogne 
that I looked for my principal recreation 



52 The Village of Auteuil 

There I took my solitary walk, morning and 
evening ; or, mounted on a little mouse-colored 
donkey, paced demurely along the woodland 
pathway. I had a favorite seat beneath the 
shadow of a venerable oak, one of the few 
hoary patriarchs of the wood which had sur- 
vived the bivouacs of the allied armies. It 
stood upon the brink of a little glassy pool, 
whose tranquil bosom was the image of a quiet 
and secluded life, and stretched its parental 
arms over a rustic bench, that had been con- 
structed beneath it for the accommodation of 
the foot-traveller, or, perchance, some idle 
dreamer like myself It seemed to look round 
with a lordly air upon its old hereditary do- 
main, whose stillness was no longer broken by 
the tap of the martial drum, nor the discordant 
clang of arms ; and, as the breeze whispered 
among its branches, it seemed to be holding 
friendly colloquies with a few of its venerable 
contemporaries, who stooped from the opposite 
bank of the pool, nodding gravely now and 
then, and gazing at themselves, with a sigh in 
the mirror below. 

In this quiet haunt of rural repose I used to 
sit at noon, hear the birds sing, and "possess 
myself in much quietness." Just at my feet 



The Village of Auteuil 53 

lay the little silver pool, with the sky and the 
woods painted in its mimic vault, and occasion- 
ally the image of a bird, or the soft, watery 
outline of a cloud, floating silently through 
its sunny hollows. The water-lily spread its 
broad, green leaves on the surface, and rocked 
to sleep a little world of insect life in its golden 
cradle. Sometimes a wandering leaf came 
floating and wavering downward, and settled 
on the water ; then a vagabond insect would 
break the smooth surface into a thousand rip- 
ples, or a green-coated frog slide from the 
bank, and, plump ! dive headlong to the 
bottom. 

I entered, too, with some enthusiasm, into 
all the rural sports and merrimakes of the vil- 
lage. The holidays were so many little eras 
of mirth and good feeling ; for the French 
have that happy and sunshiny temperament, — 
that merry-go-mad character, — which renders 
all their social meetings scenes of enjoyment 
and hilarity. I made it a point never to miss 
any of the fetes champetres, or rural dances, 
at the wood of Boulogne ; though I confess it 
sometimes gave me a momentary uneasiness 
to see my rustic throne beneath the oak 
usurped by a noisy group of girls, the silence 



54 T^^^ Village of Autettil 

and decorum of my imaginary realm broken 
by m.usic and laughter, and, in a word, my 
whole kingdom turned topsy-turvy with romp- 
ing, fiddling, and dancing. But I am naturally, 
and from principle, too, a lover of all those in- 
nocent amusements which cheer the laborer's 
toil, and, as it were, put their shoulders to the 
wheel of life, and help the poor man along 
with his load of cares. Hence I saw with no 
small delight the rustic swain astride the 
wooden horse of the carrousel, and the village 
maiden whirling round and round in its dizzy 
car ; or took my stand on a rising ground that 
overlooked the dance, an idle spectator in a 
busy throng. It was just where the village 
touched the outward border of the wood. 
There a little area had been levelled beneath 
the trees, surrounded by a painted rail, with a 
row of benches inside. The music was placed 
in a slight balcony, built around the trunk of a 
large tree in the centre ; and the lamps, hang- 
ing from the branches above, gave a gay, fan- 
tastic, and fairy look to the scene. How often 
in such moments did I recall the lines of Gold- 
smith, describing those " kinder skies " beneath 
which " France displays her bright domain,** 
and feel how true and masterly the sketch, — 



The Village of • Auteuil 55 

** Alike all ages ; dames of ancient days 
Have led their children through the mirthful maze, 
And the gray grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, 
Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. " 

Nor must I forget to mention th^ fete patro- 
nale, — a kind of annual fair, which is held at 
midsummer, in honor of the patron saint of 
Auteuil. Then the principal street of the vil- 
lage is filled with booths of every description ; 
strolling players, and rope-dancers, and jug- 
glers, and giants, and dwarfs, and wild beasts, 
and all kinds of wonderful shows, excite the 
gaping curiosity of the throng ; and in dust, 
crowds, and confusion, the village rivals the 
capital itself. Then the goodly dames of Pas- 
sy descend into the village of Auteuil ; then 
the brewers of Billancourt and the tanners 
of Sevres dance lustily under the greenwood 
tree ; and then, too, the sturdy fishmongers of 
Bretigny and Saint-Yon regale their wives 
with an airing in a swing, and their customers 
with eels and crawfish ; or, as is more poeti- 
cally set forth in an old Christmas carol, — 

' ' Vous eussiez vu venir 

Tous ceux de Saint -Yon, 

Et ceux de Bretigny 
Apportant du poisson, 

Les barbeaux et gardons, 



56 The Village of Auteuil 

Angfuilles et carpettes 
Etaient a bon marche 

Croyez, 
A cette joumee-1^, 
La, la, 
Et aussi les perchettes.*' 

I found another source of amusement in ob- 
serving the various personages that daily 
passed and repassed beneath my window. 
The character which most of all arrested my 
attention was a poor blind fiddler, whom I first 
saw chanting a doleful ballad at the door of a 
small tavern near the gate of the village. He 
wore a brown coat, out at elbows, the fragment 
of a velvet waistcoat, and a pair of tight nan- 
keen trousers, so short as hardly to reach be- 
low his calves. A little foraging-cap, that had 
long since seen its best days, set off an open, 
good-humored countenance, bronzed by sun 
and wind. He was led about by a brisk, mid- 
dle-aged woman, in straw hat and wooden 
shoes ; and a little barefooted boy, with clear, 
blue eyes and flaxen hair, held a tattered hat in 
his hand, in which he collected eleemosynary 
sous. The old fellow had a favorite song, which 
he used to sing with great glee to a merry, joy- 
ous air, the burden of which ran, " Chantoiis 



The Village of Auteuil ^y 

T amour et le plaisir! " I often thought it would 
have been a good lesson for the crabbed and 
discontented rich man to have heard this rem- 
nant of humanity, — poor, blind, and in rags, 
and dependent upon casual charity for his daily 
bread, singing in so cheerful a voice the charms 
of existence, and, as it were, fiddling life away 
to a merry tune. 

I was one morning called to my window by 
the sound of rustic music. I looked out and 
beheld a procession of villagers advancing 
along the road, attired in gay dresses, and 
marching merrily on in the direction of the 
church. I soon perceived that it was a mar- 
riage-festival. The procession was led by a 
long orang-outang of a man, in a straw hat 
and white dimity bob-coat, playing on an asth- 
matic clarionet, from which he contrived to 
blow unearthly sounds, ever and anon squeak- 
ing off at right angles from his tune, and wind- 
ing up with a grand flourish on the guttural 
notes. Behind him, led by his little boy, came 
the blind fiddler, his honest features glowing 
with all the hilarity of a rustic bridal, and, as 
he stumbled along, sawing away upon his fid- 
dle till he made all crack again. Then came 
the happy bridegroom, dressed in his Sunday 



58 The Village of Auteuil 

suit of blue, with a large nosegay in his but- 
ton-hole ; and close beside him his blushing 
bride, with downcast eyes, clad in a white robe 
and slippers, and wearing a wreath of white 
roses in her hair. The friends and relatives 
brought up the procession ; and a troop of 
village urchins came shouting along in the 
rear, scrambling among themselves for the 
largess of sous and sugar-plums that now and 
then issued in large handfuls from the pockets 
of a lean man in black, who seemed to officiate 
as master of ceremonies on the occasion. I 
gazed on the procession till it was out of sight ; 
and when the last wheeze of the clarionet died 
upon my ear, I could not help thinking how 
happy were they who were thus to dwell to- 
gether in the peaceful bosom of their native 
village, far from the gilded misery and the pes- 
tilential vices of the town. 
. On the evening of the same day, I was sit- 
ting by the window, enjoying the freshness of 
the air and the beauty and stillness of the 
hour, when I heard the distant and solemn 
hymn of the Catholic burial-service, at first so 
faint and indistinct that it seemed an illusion. 
It rose mournfully on the hush of evening, — • 
died gradually away, — then ceased. Then it 



The Village of Auteuil 59 

rose again, nearer and more distinct, and soon 
after a funeral procession appeared, and passed 
directly beneath my window. It was led by a 
priest, bearing the banner of the church, and 
followed by two boys, holding long flambeaux 
in their hands. Next came a double file of 
priests in their surplices, with a missal in one 
hand and a lighted wax taper in the other, 
chanting the funeral dirge at intervals, — now 
pausing, and then again taking up the mournful 
burden of their lamentation, accompanied by 
others, who played upon a rude kind of bassoon, 
with a dismal and wailing sound. Then fol- 
lowed various symbols of the church, and the 
bier borne on the shoulders of four men. The 
coffin was covered with a velvet pall, and a 
chaplet of white flowers lay upon it, indicating 
that the deceased was unmarried. A few of 
the villagers came behind, clad in mourning 
robes, and bearing lighted tapers. The pro- 
cession passed slowly along the same street 
that in the morning had been thronged by the 
gay bridal company. A melancholy train of 
thought forced itself home upon my mind. 
The joys and sorrows of this world are so' 
strikingly mingled ! Our mirth and grief are 
brought so mournfully in contact ! We laugh 



6o The Village of Attteuil 

while others weep, — and others rejoice when 
we are sad ! The light heart and the heavy 
walk side by side and go about together ! Be- 
neath the same roof are spread the wedding- 
feast and the funeral-pall ! The bridal-song 
mingles with the burial-hymn ! One goes to 
the marriage-bed, another to the grave ; and 
all is mutable, uncertain, and transitory. 

It is with sensations of pure delight that I 
recur to the brief period of my existence 
which was passed in the peaceful shades of 
Auteuil. There is one kind of wisdom which 
we learn from the world, and another kind 
which can be acquired in solitude only. In 
cities we study those around us ; but in the 
retirement of the country we learn to know 
ourselves. The voice within us is more dis- 
tinctly audible in the stillness of the place ; 
and the gentler affections of our nature spring 
up more freshly in its tranquillity and sunshine, 
. — nurtured by th-e healthy principle which we 
inhale with the pure air, and invigorated by 
the genial influences which descend into the 
heart from the quiet of the sylvan solitude 
around, and the soft serenity of the sky above. 



JACQUELINE 



Death lies on her, Hke an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. 

Shakes PEARS. 



• T^ EAR mother, is it not the bell I 

-L^ hear?" 

" Yes, my child ; the bell for morning 
prayers. It is Sunday to-day." 

" I had forgotten it. But now all days are 
alike to me. Hark! it sounds again, — louder, 
— louder. Open the window, for I love the 
sound. The sunshine and the fresh morning 
air revive me. And the church-bell, — O moth- 
er, — it reminds me of the holy Sunday morn- 
ings by the Loire, — so calm, so hushed, so 
beautiful ! Now give me my prayer-book, and 
draw the curtain back, that I may see the 
green trees and the church-spire. I feel bet- 
ter to-day, dear mother." 

It was a bright, cloudless morning in August 
The dew still glistened on the trees ; and a 
slight breeze wafted to the sick-chamber of 
Jacqueline the song of the birds, the rustle 



62 Jacqiieline 

of the leaves, and the solemn chime of the 
church-bells. She had been raised up in bed, 
and, reclining upon the pillow, was gazing wist- 
fully upon the quiet scene without. Her 
mother gave her the prayer-book, and then 
turned away to hide a tear that stole down her 
cheek. 

At length the bells ceased. Jacqueline 
crossed herself, kissed a pearl crucifix that 
hung around her neck, and opened the silver 
clasps of her missal. For a time she seemed 
wholly absorbed in her devotions. Her lips 
moved, but no sound was audible. At inter- 
vals the solemn voice of the priest was heard 
at a distance, and then the confused responses 
of the congregation, dying away in inartic- 
ulate murmurs. Ere long, the thrilling chant 
of the Catholic service broke upon the ear. 
At first it was low, solemn, and indistinct ; 
then it became more earnest and entreating, 
as if interceding and imploring pardon for sin ; 
and then arose louder and louder, full, harmo- 
nious, majestic, as it wafted the song of praise 
to heaven, — and suddenly ceased. Then the 
sweet tones of the organ were heard, — 
trembling, thrilling, and rising higher and 
higher, and filling the whole air with their 



yacqueline 63 

rich, melodious music. What exquisite ac- 
cords! — what noble harmonies! — what touch- 
ing pathos ! The soul of the sick girl seemed 
to kindle into more ardent devotion, and to be 
rapt away to heaven in the full, harmonious 
chorus, as it swelled onward, doubling and re- 
doubling, and rolling upward in a full burst of 
rapturous devotion ! Then all was hushed 
again. Once more the low sound of the bell 
smote the air, and announced the elevation of 
the host The invalid seemed entranced in 
prayer. Her book had fallen beside her, — « 
her hands were clasped, — her eyes closed, — - 
her soul retired within its secret chambers. 
Then a more triumphant peal of bells arose. 
The tears gushed from her closed and swollen 
lids ; her cheek was flushed ; she opened her 
dark eyes, and fixed them with an expression 
of deep adoration and penitence upon an 
image of the Saviour on the cross, which hung 
at the foot of her bed, and her lips again 
moved in prayer. Her countenance expressed 
the deepest resignation. She seemed to ask 
only that she might die in peace, and go to the 
bosom of her Redeemer. 

The mother w^as kneehng by the window, 
with her face concealed in the folds of the cur- 



64 yacqueline 

tain. She arose, and, going to the bedside of 
her child, threw her arms around her and 
burst into tears. 

" My dear mother, I shall not live long ; I 
feel it here. This piercing pain, — at times it 
seizes me, and I cannot — cannot breathe." 

" My child, you will be better soon." 

" Yes, mother, I shall be better soon. All 
tears, and pain, and sorrow will be over. The 
hymn of adoration and entreaty I have just 
heard, I shall never hear again on earth. 
Next Sunday, mother, kneel again by that 
window as to-day. I shall not be here, upon 
this bed of pain and sickness ; but when you 
hear the solemn hymn of worship, and the be- 
seeching tones that wing the spirit up to God, 
think, mother, that I am there, with my sweet 
sister who has gone before us, — kneeling at 
our Saviour's feet, and happy, — O, how hap- 
py!" 

The afflicted mother made no reply, — hei 
heart was too full to speak. 

" You remember, mother, how calmly Amie 
died. She was so young and beautiful ! I al- 
ways pray that I may die as she did. I do 
not fear death, as I did before she was taken 
from us. But, O, — this pain, — this cruel 



yacqueline 65 

pain ! — it seems to draw my mind back from 
heaven. When it leaves me, I shall die in 
peace." 

" My poor child ! God's holy will be done ! " 

The invalid soon sank into a quiet slumber. 
The excitement was over, and exhausted na- 
ture sought relief in sleep. 

The persons between whom this scene 
passed were a widow and her sick daughter, 
from the neighborhood of Tours. They had 
left the banks of the Loire to consult the more 
experienced physicians of the metropolis, and 
had been directed to the Maison de sante at 
Auteuil for the benefit of the pure air. But 
all in vain. The health of the uncomplaining 
patient grew worse and worse, and it soon be- 
came evident that the closing scene was draw- 
ing near. 

Of this Jacqueline herself seemed conscious ; 
and towards evening she expressed a wish to 
receive the last sacraments of the church. A 
priest was sent for ; and ere long the tinkling 
of a little bell in the street announced his ap- 
proach. He bore in his hand a silver chalice 
containing the consecrated wafer, and a small 
Vessel filled with the holy oil of the extreme 
unction hung from his neck. Before him 



66 yacqueline 

walked a boy carrying a little bell, whose sound 
announced the passing of these symbols of the 
Catholic faith. In the rear, a few of the vil- 
lagers, bearing lighted wax tapers, formed a 
short and melancholy procession. They soon 
entered the sick-chamber, and the glimmer of 
the tapers mingled with the red light of the 
setting sun that shot his farewell rays through 
the open window. The vessel of oil and the sil- 
ver chalice were placed upon the table in front 
of a crucifix that hung upon the wall, and all 
present, excepting the priest, threw themselves 
upon their knees. The priest then approached 
the bed of the dying girl, and said, in a slow 
and solemn tone, — 

*' The King of kings and Lord of lords has 
passed thy threshold. Is thy spirit ready to 
receive him ? " 

'' It is, father." 

" Hast thou confessed thy sins 1 " 

" Holy father, no." 

" Confess thyself, then, that thy sins may be 
forgiven, and thy name recorded in the book 
of life." 

And, turning to the kneeling crowd around 
he waved his hand for them to retire, and was 
left alone with the sick girl. He seated hnn- 



yacqueline 67 

self beside her pillow, and the subdued whisper 
of the confession mingled with the murmur of 
the evening air, which lifted the heavy folds of 
the curtains, and stole in upon the holy scene. 
Poor Jacqueline had few sins to confess, — a 
secret thought or two towards the pleasures 
and delights of the world, — a wish to live, 
unuttered, but which, to the eye of her self- 
accusing spirit, seemed to resist the wise provi- 
dence of God ; — no more. The confession of 
a meek and lowly heart is soon made. The 
door was again opened ; the attendants en- 
tered, and knelt around the bed, and the priest 
proceeded, — 

"And now prepare thyself to receive with 
contrite heart the body of our blessed Lord 
and Redeemer. Dost thou believe that our 
Lord Jesus Christ was conceived by the Holy 
Spirit, and born of the Virgin Mary ? " 

" I believe." 

And all present joined in the solemn re- 
sponse, — 

" I believe." 

" Dost thou believe that the Father is God, 
that the Son is God, and that the Holy Spirit 
is God, — three persons and one God t " 

" I believe." 



68 jfacqueliTie 

•"Dost thou believe that the Son is seated 
on the right hand of the Majesty on high, 
whence he shall come to judge the quick and 
the dead ? " 

" I believe." 

" Dost thou believe that by the holy sacra- 
ments of the church thy sins are forgiven thee, 
and that thus thou art made worthy of eternal 
life ? " 

" I believe." 

" Dost thou pardon, with all thy heart, all 
who have offended thee in thought, word, or 
deed?" • 

" I pardon them." 

" And dost thou ask pardon of God and 
thy neighbor for all offences thou hast commit- 
ted against them, either in thought, word or 
deed.?" 

" I do ! " 

" Then repeat after me, — O Lord Jesus, I 
am not worthy, nor do 1 merit, that thy divine 
majesty should enter this poor tenement of 
clay ; but, according to thy holy promises, be 
my sins forgiven, and my soul washed white 
from all transgression." 

Then, taking a consecrated wafer from the 
vase, he placed it between the lips of the dying 



jFacqueline 69 

girl, and, while the assistant sounded the little 
silver bell, said, — 

" Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat 
animam tuam in vitam eternam!' 

And the kneeling crowd smote their breasts 
and responded in one solemn voice, — 

" Amen ! " 

The priest then took a little golden rod, 
and, dipping it in holy oil, anointed the invalid 
upon the hands, feet, and breast, in the form of 
the cross. When these ceremonies were com- 
pleted, the priest and his attendants retired, 
leaving the mother alone with her dying child, 
who, from the exhaustion caused by the pre- 
ceding scene, sank into a deathlike sleep. 

** Between two worlds life hovered like a star, 
'Twixt night and mora, upon the horizon's verge." 

The long twilight of the summer evening 
stole on ; the shadows deepened without, and 
the night-lamp glimmered feebly in the sick- 
chamber; but still she slept. She was lying 
with her hands clasped upon her breast, — her 
pallid cheek resting upon the pillow, and her 
bloodless lips apart, but motionless and silent 
as the sleep of death. Not a breath inter- 
rupted the silence of her slumber. Not a 



70 Jacqueline 

movement of the heavy and sunken eyeHd, not 
a trembling of the lip, not a shadow on the 
marble brow, told when the spirit took its 
flight. It passed to a better world than this: — 

** There 's a perpetual spring, — perpetual youth ; 
No joint-benumbing cold, nor scorching heat, 
Famine, nor age, have any being there." 



THE SEXAGENARIAN 



Do you set down your name in the scroll of youths that are written 
down old, with all the characters of age ? Have you not a moist eye, a 
dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg ? 

Shakespeare. 



THERE he goes, in his long russet surtout, 
sweeping down yonder gravel-walk, be- 
neath the trees, like a yellow leaf in autumn 
wafted along by a fitful gust of wind. Now 
he pauses, — now seems to be whirled round 
in an eddy, — and now rustles and brushes on- 
ward again. He is talking to himself in an 
undertone, as usual, and flourishes a pinch of 
snuff between his forefinger and his thumb, 
ever and anon drumming on the cover of his 
box, by way of emphasis, with a sound like the 
tap of a woodpecker. He always takes a 
morning walk in the garden, — in fact, I may 
say he passes the greater part of the day there, 
either strolling up and down the gravel-walks, 
or sitting on a rustic bench in one of the leafy 
arbors. He always wears that same dress, too ; 
a bell-crowned hat, a frilled bosom, and white 



72 The Sexagenarian 

dimity waistcoat soiled with snuff, — light nan- 
keen breeches, and, over all, that long and 
flowing surtout of russet-brown Circassian, 
hanging in wrinkles round his slender body, 
and toying with his thin, rakish legs. Such 
is his constant garb, morning and evening ; 
and it gives him a cool and breezy look, even 
in the heat of a noonday in August. 

The personage sketched in the preceding 
paragraph is Monsieur d'Argentville, a sexa- 
genarian, with whom I became acquainted 
during my residen(!:e at the Maison de sante of 
Auteuil. I found him there, and left him 
there. Nobody knew when he came, — he 
had been there from time immemorial ; nor 
when he was going away, — for he himself did 
not know ; nor what ailed him, — for though 
he was always complaining, yet he grew nei- 
ther better nor worse, never consulted the 
physician, and ate voraciously three times a 
day. At table he was rather peevish, troubled 
his neighbors with his elbows, and uttered the 
monosyllable pouah ! rather oftener than good- 
breeding and a due deference to the opinions 
of others seemed to justify. As soon as he 
seated himself at table, he breathed into his 
tumbler, and wiped it out with a napkin ; then 



The Sexagenarian 73 

wiped his plate, his spoon, his knife and fork 
in succession, and each with great care. After 
this he placed the napkin under his chin ; and, 
these preparations being completed, gave full 
swing to an appetite which was not inappro- 
priately denominated, by one of our guests, 
" une faim ca^ziner 

The old gentleman's weak side was an af- 
fectation of youth and gallantry. Though 
" written down old, with all the characters of 
age," yet at times he seemed to think himself 
in the heyday of life ; and the assiduous court 
he paid to a fair countess, who was passing the 
summer at the Maison de sante, was the. source 
of no little merriment to all but himself He 
loved, too, to recall the golden age of his 
amours ; and would discourse with prolix elo- 
quence, and a faint twinkle in his watery eye, 
of his bonnes fortunes in times of old, and the 
rigors that many a fair dame had suffered on 
his account. Indeed, his chief pride seemed 
to be to make his hearers believe that he had 
been a dangerous man in his youth, and was 
not yet quite safe. 

As I also was a peripatetic of the garden, 
we encountered each other at every turn. At 
first our conversation was limited to the usual 

4 



74 ^^ Sexagenarian 

salutations of the day ; but erelong our cas- 
ual acquaintance ripened into a kind of inti- 
macy. Step by step I won my way, — first 
into his society, — then into his snuff-box, — 
and then into his heart. He was a great talk- 
er, and he found in me what he found in no 
other inmate of the house, — a good listener, 
who never interrupted his long stories, nor 
contradicted his opinions. So he talked down 
one alley and up another, — from breakfast till 
dinner, — from dinner till midnight, — at all 
times and in all places, when he could catch 
me by the button, till at last he had confided 
to my ear all the important and unimportant 
events of a life of sixty years. 

Monsieur d'Argentville was a shoot from a 
wealthy family of Nantes. Just before the 
Revolution, he went up to Paris to study law 
at the University, and, like many other 
wealthy scholars of his age, was soon involved 
in the intrigues and dissipation of the metrop- 
olis. He first established himself in the Rue 
de rUniversite ; but a roguish pair of eyes at 
an opposite window soon drove from the field 
such heavy tacticians as Hugues Doneau and 
Gui Coquille. A flirtation was commenced in 
due form ; and a flag of truce, offering to ca- 



The Sexagenarian 75 

pitulate, was sent in the shape of a billet-doux. 
In the mean time he regularly amused his lei- 
sure hours by blowing kisses across the street 
with an old pair of bellows. One afternoon, 
as he was occupied in this way, a tall gentle- 
man with whiskers stepped into the room, just 
as he had charged the bellows to the muzzle. 
He muttered something about an explanation, 
— his sister, — marriage, — and the satisfaction 
of a gentleman ! Perhaps there is no situation 
in life so awkward to a man of real sensibility 
as that of being awed into matrimony or a 
duel by the whiskers of a tall brother. There 
was but one alternative ; and the next morn- 
ing a placard at the window of the Bachelor 
of Love, with the words " Furnished Apart- 
ment to let," showed that the former occupant 
had found it convenient to change lodgings. 

He next appeared in the Chaussee-d'Antin, 
where he assiduously prepared himself for fu- 
ture exigencies by a course of daily lessons in 
the use of the small-sword. He soon after 
quarrelled with his best friend, about a little 
actress on the Boulevard, and had the satisfac- 
tion of being jilted, and then run through the 
body at the Bois de Boulogne. This gave him 
new eclat in the fashionable world, and conse- 



76 The Sexagenarian 

quently he pursued pleasure with a keener 
reHsh than ever. He next had the grande 
fassioHy and narrowly escaped marrying an 
heiress of great expectations, and a countless 
number of chateaux. Just before the catas- 
trophe, however, he had the good fortune to 
discover that the lady's expectations were lim- 
ited to his own pocket, and that, as for her 
chateaux, they were all Chateaux en Espagne. 

About this time his father died ; and the 
hopeful son was hardly well established in his 
inheritance, when the Revolution broke out. 
Unfortunately he was a firm upholder of the 
divine right of kings, and had the honor of 
being among the first of the proscribed. He 
narrowly escaped the guillotine by jumping 
on board a vessel bound for America, and ar- 
rived at Boston with only a few francs in his 
pocket ; but, as he knew how to accommodate 
himself to circumstances, he contrived to live 
by teaching fencing and French, and keeping 
a dancing-school. 

At the restoration of the Bourbons, he re- 
turned to France ; and from that time to the 
day of our acquaintance had been engaged in 
a series of vexatious lawsuits, in the hope of 
recovering a portion of his property, which 



The Sexage7iarian 77 

had been intrusted to a friend for safe keeping 
at the commencement of the Revolution. His 
friend, however, denied all knowledge of the 
transaction, and the assignment was very diffi- 
cult to prove. Twelve years of unsuccessful 
litigation had completely soured the old gen- 
tleman's temper, and made him peevish and 
misanthropic ; and he had come to Auteuil 
merely to escape the noise of the city, and to 
brace his shattered nerves with pure air and 
quiet amusements. There he idled the time 
away, sauntering about the garden of the 
Maison de sa7ite\ talking to himself when he 
could get no other listener, and occasionally 
reinforcing his misanthropy with a dose of the 
Maxims of La Rochefoucauld, or a visit to the 
scene of his duel in the Bois de Boulogne. 

Poor Monsieur d'Argentville ! What a 
miserable life he led, — or rather dragged on, 
from day to day ! A petulant, broken-down 
old man, who had outlived his fortune, and his 
friends, and his hopes, — yea, everything but 
the sting of bad passions and the recollection 
of a life ill-spent ! Whether he still walks the 
earth or slumbers in its bosom, I know not ; 
but a lively recollection of him will always 
mingle with my reminiscences of AuteuiL 



PERE LA CHAISE 



Our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us 
how we may be buried in our survivors. 

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content to be as 
though they had not been, — to be found in the register of God, not in the 
record of man. 

Sir Thomas Browne's Urn Burial* 



THE cemetery of Pere la Chaise is the 
Westminster Abbey of Paris. Both are 
the dwellings of the dead ; but in one they 
repose in green alleys and beneath the open 
sky, — in the other their resting-place is in 
the shadowy aisle, and beneath the dim arches 
of an ancient abbey. One is a temple of 
nature ; the other a temple of art. In one, 
the soft melancholy of the scene is rendered 
still more touching by the warble of birds and 
the shade of trees, and the grave receives the 
gentle visit of the sunshine and the shower : 
in the other, no sound but the passing footfkll 
breaks the silence of the place ; the twilight 
steals in through high and dusky windows ; 
and the damps of the gloomy vault lie heavy 



Pere la Chaise 79 

on the heart, and leave their stain upon the 
mouldering tracery of the tomb. 

Pere la Chaise stands just beyond the Bar- 
riere d'Aulney, on a hill-side, looking towards 
the city. Numerous gravel-walks, winding 
through shady avenues and between marble 
monuments, lead up from the principal en- 
trance to a chapel on the summit. There is 
hardly a grave that has not its little enclosure 
planted with shrubbery ; and a thick mass of 
foliage half conceals each funeral stone. The 
sighing of the wind, as the branches rise and 
fall upon it, — the occasional note of a bird 
among the trees, and the shifting of light and 
shade upon the tombs beneath, have a sooth- 
ing effect upon the mind ; and I doubt whether 
any one can enter that enclosure, where re- 
pose the dust and ashes of so many great and 
good men, without feeling the religion of the 
place steal over him, and seeing something of 
the dark and gloomy expression pass off from 
the stern countenance of death. 

It was near the close of a bright summer 
afternoon that I visited this celebrated spot for 
the first time. The first object that arrested 
my attention, on entering, was a monument in 
the form of a small Gothic chapel, which 



8o Pere la Chaise 

stands near the entrance, in the avenue lead* 
ing to the right hand. On the marble couch 
within are stretched two figures, carved in 
stone and dressed in the antique garb of the 
Middle Ages. It is the tomb of Abelard and 
Heloise. The history of these unfortunate lov- 
ers is too well known to need recapitulation ; 
but perhaps it is not so well known how often 
their ashes were disturbed in the slumber of 
the grave. Abelard died in the monastery of 
Saint Marcel, and was buried in the vaults 
of the church. His body afterwards was re- 
moved to the convent of the Paraclet, at the 
request of Heloise, and at her death her own 
was deposited in the same tomb. Three cen- 
turies they reposed together ; after which they 
were separated to different sides of the church, 
to calm the delicate scruples of the lady-abbess 
of the convent. More than a century after- 
ward, they were again united in the same tomb ; 
and when at length the Paraclet was destroyed, 
these mouldering remains were transported 
to the church of Nogent-sur-Seine. They 
were- next deposited in an ancient cloister at 
Paris ; and now repose near the gateway of 
the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. What a sin- 
gular destiny was theirs ! that, after a life of 



i 



Pere la Chaise 8i 

such passionate and disastrous love, — such 
sorrows, and tears, and penitence, — their very 
dust should not be suffered to rest quietly in 
the grave ! — that their death should so much 
resemble their life in its changes and vicissi- 
tudes, its partings and its meetings, its inquie- 
tudes and its persecutions ! — that mistaken 
zeal should follow them down to the very 
tomb, — as if earthly passion could glimmer, 
like a funeral lamp, amid the damps of the 
charnel-house, and " even in their ashes bum 
their wonted fires ! " 

As I gazed on the sculptured forms before 
me, and the little chapel, whose Gothic roof 
seemed to protect their marble sleep, my busy 
memory swung back the dark portals of the 
past, and the picture of their sad and eventful 
lives came up before me in the gloomy dis- 
tance. What a lesson for those who are en- 
dowed with the fatal gift of genius ! It would 
seem, indeed, that He who " tempers the wind 
to the shorn lamb " tempers also his chastise- 
ments to the errors and infirmities of a weak 
and simple mind, — while the transgressions 
of him upon whose nature are more strongly 
marked the intellectual attributes of the Deity 
are followed, even upon earth, by severer to- 

4* F 



82 Pere la Chaise 

kens of the Divine displeasure. He who sins 
in the darkness of a benighted intellect sees 
not so clearly, through the shadows that sur- 
round him, the countenance of an offended 
God ; but he who sins in the broad noonday 
of a clear and radiant mind, when at length 
the delirium of passion has subsided, and the 
cloud flits away from before the sun^ trem- 
bles beneath the searching eye of that accus- 
ing power which is strong in the strength 
of a godlike intellect. Thus the mind and 
the heart are closely linked together, and the 
errors of genius bear with them their own 
chastisement, even upon earth. The history 
of Abelard and Helo'fse is an illustration of 
this truth. But at length they sleep well. 
Their lives are like a tale that is told ; their 
errors are " folded up like a book " ; and what 
mortal hand shall break the seal that death has 
set upon them } 

Leaving this interesting tomb behind me, I 
took a pathway to the left, which conducted 
me up the hill-side. I soon found myself in 
the deep shade of heavy foliage, where the 
branches of the yew and willow mingled, inter- 
woven with the tendrils and blossoms of the 
honeysuckle. I now stood in the most popu- 



Pere la Chaise 83 

lous part of this city of tombs. Every step 
awakened a new train of thrilling recollec- 
tions ; for at every step my eye caught the 
name of some one whose glory had exalted 
the character of his native land, and resound- 
ed across the waters of the Atlantic. Philos- 
ophers, historians, musicians, warriors, and 
poets slept side by side around me ; some be- 
neath the gorgeous monument, and some be- 
neath the simple headstone. But the political 
intrigue, the dream of science, the historical 
research, the ravishing harmony of sound, the 
tried courage, the inspiration of the lyre, — 
where are they t With the living, and not 
with the dead ! The right hand has lost its 
cunning in the grave ; but the soul, whose 
high volitions it obeyed, still lives to reproduce 
itself in ages yet to come. 

Among these graves of genius I observed 
here and there a splendid monument, which 
had been raised by the pride of family over 
the dust of men who could lay no claim either 
to the gratitude or remembrance of posterity. 
Their presence seemed like an intrusion into 
the sanctuary of genius. What had wealth to 
do there .? Why should it crowd the dust of 
the great ? That was no thoroughfare of busi- 



84 Pere la Chaise 

ness, — - no mart of gain ! There were no 
costly banquets there ; no silken garments, 
nor gaudy liveries, nor obsequious attendants ! 
"What servants," says Jeremy Taylor, ''shall 
we have to wait upon us in the grave ? what 
friends to visit us ? what officious people to 
cleanse away the moist and unwholesome 
cloud reflected upon our faces from the sides 
of the weeping vaults, which are the longest 
weepers for our funerals ? " Material wealth 
gives a factitious superiority to the living, but 
the treasures of intellect give a real superiority 
to the dead ; and the rich man, who would 
not deign to walk the street with the starving 
and penniless man of genius, deems it an hon- 
or, when death has redeemed the fame of the 
neglected, to have his own ashes laid beside 
him, and to claim with him the silent com- 
panionship of the grave. 

I continued my walk through the numerous 
winding paths, as chance or curiosity directed 
me. Now I was lost in a little green hollow, 
overhung with thick-leaved shrubbery, and 
then came out upon an elevation, from which, 
through an opening in the trees, the eye 
caught glimpses of the city, and the little 
esplanade, at the foot of the hill, where the 



Pere la Chaise * 85 

poor lie buried. There poverty hires its 
grave, and takes but a short lease of the nar- 
row house. At the end of a few months, or at 
most of a few years, the tenant is dislodged to 
give place to another, and he in turn to a 
third. " Who," says Sir Thomas Browne, 
" knows the fate of his bones, or how often he 
is to be buried ? Who hath the oracle of his 
ashes, or whither they are to be scattered } " 

Yet, even in that neglected corner, the hand 
of affection had been busy in decorating the 
hired house. Most of the graves were sur- 
rounded with a slight wooden paling, to secure 
them from the passing footstep ; there was 
hardly one so deserted as not to be marked 
with its little wooden cross, and decorated 
with a garland of flowers ; and here and there 
I could perceive a solitary mourner, clothed in 
black, stooping to plant a shrub on the grave, 
or sitting in motionless sorrow beside it. 

As I passed on, amid the shadowy avenues 
of the cemetery, I could not help comparing 
my own impressions with those which others 
have felt when walking alone among the 
dwellings of the dead. Are, then, the sculp- 
tured urn and storied monument nothing 
more than symbols of family pride ? Is all I 



86 Pere la Chaise 

see around me a memorial of the living more 
than of the dead, — an empty show of sorrow, 
which thus vaunts itself in mournful pageant 
and funeral parade ? Is it indeed true, as 
some have said, that the simple wild-flower, 
which springs spontaneously upon the grave, 
and the rose, which the hand of affection 
plants there, are fitter objects wherewith to 
adorn the narrow house ? No ! I feel that 
it is not so ! Let the good and the great be 
honored even in the grave. Let the sculp- 
tured marble direct our footsteps to the scene 
of their long sleep ; let the chiselled epitaph 
repeat their names, and tell us where repose 
the nobly good and wise ! It is not true that 
all are equal in the grave. There is no equal- 
ity even there. The mere handful of dust and 
ashes, — the mere distinction of prince and 
beggar, — of a rich winding-sheet and a 
shroudless burial, — of a solitary grave and 
a family vault, — were this all, — then, indeed, 
it would be true that death is a common lev- 
eller. Such paltry distinctions as those of 
wealth and poverty are soon levelled by the 
spade and mattock ; the damp breath of the 
grave blots them out forever. But there are 
other distinctions which even the mace of 



Pere la Chaise 87 

death cannot level or obliterate. Can it break 
down the distinction of virtue and vice ? 
Can it confound the good with the bad ? the 
noble with the base ? all that is truly great, 
and pure, and godlike, with all that is scorned, 
and sinful, and degraded ? No ! Then death 
is not a common leveller ! Are all alike be- 
loved in death and honored in their burial ? 
Is that ground holy where the bloody hand of 
the murderer sleeps from crime ? Does every 
grave awaken the same emotions in our 
hearts ? and do the footsteps of the stranger 
pause as long beside each funeral-stone ? 
No ! Then all are not equal in the grave ! 
And as long as the good and evil deeds of 
men live after them, so long will there be dis- 
tinctions even in the grave. The superiority 
of one over another is in the nobler and bet- 
ter emotions which it excites ; in its more fer- 
vent admonitions to virtue ; in the livelier rec- 
ollections which it awakens of the good and 
the great, whose bodies are crumbling to dust 
beneath our feet ! 

If, then, there are distinctions in the grave, 
surely it is not unwise to designate them by 
the external marks of honor. These out- 
ward appliances and memorials of respect, — • 



88 P^re la Chaise 

the mournful urn, — the sculptured bust, — 
the epitaph eloquent in praise, — cannot in- 
deed create these distinctions, but they serve 
to mark them. It is only when pride or 
wealth builds them to honor the slave of 
mammon or the slave of appetite, when the 
voice from the grave rebukes the false and 
pompous epitaph, and the dust and ashes of 
the tomb seem struggling to maintain the su- 
periority of mere worldly rank, and to carry 
into the grave the bawbles of earthly van- 
ity, — it is then, and then only, that we feel 
how utterly worthless are all the devices of 
sculpture, and the empty pomp of monumental 
brass ! 

After rambling leisurely about for some 
time, reading the inscriptions on the various 
monuments which attracted my curiosity, and 
giving way to the different reflections they 
suggested, I sat down to rest myself on a 
sunken tombstone. A winding gravel-walk, 
overshaded by an avenue of trees, and lined 
on both sides with richly sculptured monu- 
ments, had gradually conducted me to the 
summit of the hill, upon whose slope the cem- 
etery stands. Beneath me in the distance, 
and dim-discovered through the misty and 



Pere la Chaise 89 

smoky atmosphere of evening, rose the count- 
less roofs and spires of the city. Beyond, 
throwing his level rays athwart the dusky 
landscape, sank the broad red sun. The dis- 
tant murmur of the city rose upon my ear ; 
and the toll of the evening bell came up, min- 
gled with the rattle of the paved street and 
the confused sounds of labor. What an hour 
for meditation ! What a contrast between the 
metropolis of the living and the metropolis of 
the dead ! I could not help calling to my 
mind that allegory of mortality, written by 
a hand which has been many a long year 
cold : — 

"Earth goeth upon earth as man upon mould, 
Like as earth upon earth never go should, 
Earth goeth upon earth as glistening gold, 
And yet shall earth unto earth rather than he would. 

*' Lo, earth on earth, consider thou may, 
, How earth cometh to earth naked alway, 
Why shall earth upon earth go stout or gay, 
Since earth out of earth shall pass in poor array. " * 



* I subjoin this relic of old English verse entire, and in its 
antiquated language, for those of my readers who may have 
an antiquarian taste. It is copied from a book whose title I 
have forgotten, and of which I have but a single leaf, contain- 
ing the poem. In describing the antiquities of the church of 



90 Pere la Chaise 

Before I left the graveyard the shades of 
evening had fallen, and the objects around me 
grown dim and indistinct. As I passed the 
gateway, I turned to take a parting look. I 
could distinguish only the chapel on the sum- 

Stratford-upon-Avon, the writer gives the following account 
of a very old painting upon the wall, and of the poem which 
served as its motto. The painting is no longer visible, hav- 
ing been effaced in repairing the church. 

** Against the west wall of the nave, on the south side of 
the arch, was painted the martyrdom of Thomas-a-Becket, 
while kneeling at the altar of St. Benedict in Canterbury ca- 
thedral ; below this was the figure of an angel, probably St 
Michael, supporting a long scroll, upon which were seven 
stanzas in old English, being an allegory of mortality : — 

*' Erthe oute of Erthe ys wondurly wroght 
Erth hath gotyn uppon erth a dygnyte of noght 
Erth ypon erth hath sett all hys thowht 
How erth apon erth may be hey browght 

" Erth apon erth wold be a kyng 
But how that erth gott to erth he thyngkys nothyng 
When erth byddys erth hys rentys whom bryng 
Then schall erth apon erth have a hard ptyng 

'* Erth apon erth wynnys castellys and towrys 
Then seth erth unto erth thys ys all owrys 
When erth apon erth hath bylde hys bowrys 
Then schall erth for erth suffur many hard schowrys 

" Erth goth apon erth as man apon mowld 
Lyke as erth apon erth never goo schold 



Pere la Chaise 91 

mit of the hill, and here and there a lofty ol> 
elisk of snow-white marble, rising from the 
black and heavy mass of foliage around, and 
pointing upward to the gleam of the departed 
sun, that still lingered in the sky, and mingled 
with the soft starlight of a summer evening. 

Erth goth apon erth as gelsteryng gold 

And yet schall erth unto erth rather than he wold 

** Why that erth loveth erth wondur me thynke 
Or why that erth wold for erth other swett or swynke 
When erth apon erth ys broght wtyn the brynke 
Then schall erth apon erth have a fowll stynke 

*' Lo erth on erth consedur thow may 
How erth comyth to erth nakyd all way 
Why schall erth apon erth goo stowte or gay 
Seth erth owt of erth schall passe yn poor aray 

" I counsill erth apon erth that ys wondurly wrogt 
The whyl yt. erth ys apon erth to tome hys thowht 
And pray to god upon erth yt all erth wroght 
That all crystyn soullys to ye. blys may be broght 

*' Beneath were two men, holding a scroll over a body 
wrapped in a winding-sheet, and covered with some emblems 
of mortahty," &c 



THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE 



[e ne consols qu*unc maniere de voyager plus agreable que d'allcr ^ 
Gheval ; c'est d'aller ^l pied. On part a son moment; on s'arrete k sa vo- 
lonte, on fait tant et si peu d'exercise qu'on veut. 

Quand on ne veut qu'arriver, on peut courir en chaise de poste ; mais 
quand on veut voyager, il faut aller a pied. 

Rousseau- 



IN the beautiful month of October, I made 
a foot excursion along the banks of the 
Loire, from Orleans to Tours. This luxuriant 
region is justly called the garden of France. 
From Orleans to Blois, the whole valley of the 
Loire is one continued vineyard. The bright 
green foliage of the vine spreads, like the un- 
dulations of the sea, over all the landscape, 
with here and there a silver flash of the river, 
a sequestered hamlet, or the towers of an old 
chateau, to enliven and variegate the scene. 

The vintage had already commenced. The 
peasantry were busy in the fields, — the song 
that cheered their labor was on the breeze, and 
the heavy wagon tottered by, laden with the 
clusters of the vine. Everything around me 
wore that happy look which makes the heart 



TJie Valley of tJie Loire 93 

glacL In the morning I arose with the lark ; 
and at night I slept where sunset overtook me. 
The healthy exercise of foot-travelling, the 
pure, bracing air of autumn, and the cheerful 
aspect of the whole landscape about me, gave 
fresh elasticity to a mind not overburdened 
with care, and made me forget not only the 
fatigue of walking, but also the consciousness 
of being alone.- 

My first day's journey brought me at even^ 
ing to a village, whose name I have forgotten, 
situated about eight leagues from Orleans. It 
is a small, obscure hamlet, not mentioned in 
the guide-book, and stands upon the precip- 
itous banks of a deep ravine, through which a 
noisy brook leaps down to turn the ponderous 
wheel of a thatch-roofed mill. The \'illage 
inn stands upon the highway ; but the \'illage 
itself is not \dsible to the traveller as he passes. 
It is completely hidden in the lap of a wooded 
valley, and so embowered in trees that not a 
roof nor a chimney peeps out to betray its 
hiding-place. It is like the nest of a ground- 
swallow, w^hich the passing footstep almost 
treads upon, and yet it is not seen. I passed 
Dy without suspecting that a village was near ; 
and the little inn had a look so unin\iting that 
I did not even enter it. 



94 The Valley of the Loire 

After proceeding a mile or two farther, I per- 
ceived, upon my left, a village spire rising over 
the vineyards. Towards this I directed my 
footsteps ; but it seemed to recede as I ad- 
vanced, and at last quite disappeared. It was 
evidently many miles distant ; and as the path 
I followed descended from the highway, it had 
gradually sunk beneath a swell of the vine- 
clad landscape. I now found myself in the 
midst of an extensive vineyard. It was just 
sunset ; and the last golden rays lingered on 
the rich and mellow scenery around me. The 
peasantry were still busy at their task ; and 
the occasional bark of a dog, and the distant 
sound of an evening bell, gave fresh romance 
to the scene. The reality of many a day- 
dream of childhood, of many a poetic revery 
of youth, was before me. I stood at sunset 
amid the luxuriant vineyards of France ! 

The first person I met was a poor old wo- 
man, a little bowed down with age, gathering 
grapes into a large basket. She was dressed 
like the poorest class of peasantry, and pur- 
sued her solitary task alone, heedless of the 
cheerful gossip and the merry laugh which 
came from a band of more youthful vintagers 
at a short distance from her. She was so in- 



The Valley of the Loire 95 

tently engaged in her work, that she did not 
perceive my approach until I bade her good 
evening. On hearing my voice, she looked up 
from her labor, and returned the salutation ; 
and, on my asking her if there were a tavern 
or a farm-house in the neighborhood where I 
could pass the night, she showed me the path- 
way through the vineyard that led to the vil- 
lage, and then added, with a look of curi- 
osity, — 

" You must be a stranger, sir, in these 
parts." 

" Yes ; my home is very far from here." 

" How far ? " 

" More than a thousand leagues." 

The old woman looked incredulous. 

" I came from a distant land beyond the 
sea." 

" More than a thousand leagues ! " at length 
repeated she ; " and why have you come so 
far from home V 

" To travel ; — to see how you live in this 
country." 

" Have you no relations in your own t " 

"Yes ; I have both brothers and sisters, a 
father and — " 

"And a mother.?" 



96 The Valley of the Loir^ 

''Thank Heaven, I have." 

" And did you leave her ? " 

Here the old woman gave me a piercing 
look of reproof; shook her head mournfully^ 
and, with a deep sigh, as if some painful recol- 
lections had been awakened in her bosom, 
turned again to her solitary task. I felt re- 
buked ; for there is something almost pro- 
phetic in the admonitions of the old. The 
eye of age looks meekly into my heart ! the 
voice of age echoes mournfully through it! the 
hoary head and palsied hand of age plead irre- 
sistibly for its sympathies ! I venerate old 
age ; and I love not the man who can look 
without emotion upon the sunset of life, when 
the dusk of evening begins to gather over the 
watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow 
broader and deeper upon the understanding ! 

I pursued the pathway which led towards 
the village, and the next person I encountered 
was an old man, stretched lazily beneath the 
vines upon a little strip of turf, at a point 
where four paths met, forming a crossway in 
the vineyard. He was clad in a coarse garb 
of gray, with a pair of long gaiters or spatter- 
dashes. Beside him lay a blue cloth-cap, a 
staff, and an old weather-beaten knapsack. I 



The Valley of the Loire 97 

saw at once that he was a foot-traveller like 
myself, and therefore, without more ado, en- 
tered into conversation with him. From his 
language, and the peculiar manner in which 
he now and then wiped his upper lip with the 
back of his hand, as if in search of the mus- 
tache which was no longer there, I judged 
that he had been a soldier. In this opinion 
I was not mistaken. He had served under 
Napoleon, and had followed the imperial eagle 
across the Alps, and the Pyrenees, and the 
burning sands of Egypt. Like every vieille 
moustache, he spake with enthusiasm of the 
Little Corporal, and cursed the English, the 
Germans, the Spanish, and every other race 
on earth, except the Great Nation, — his own. 

" I like," said he, "after a long day's march, 
to lie down in this way upon the grass, and 
enjoy the cool of the evening. It reminds me 
of the bivouacs of other days, and of old 
friends who are now up there." 

Here he pointed with his finger to the sky. 

" They have reached the last etape before 
me, in the long march. But I shall go soon. 
We shall all meet again at the last roll-call. 
Sacre nam de ! There 's a tear !" 

He wiped it away with his sleeve. 



98 The Valley of the Loire 

Here our colloquy was interrupted by the 
approach of a group of vintagers, who were re- 
turning homeward from their labor. To this 
party I joined myself, and invited the old sol- 
dier to do the same ; but he shook his head. 

" I thank you ; my pathway lies in a dif- 
ferent direction." 

" But there is no other village near, and the 
sun has already set." 

" No matter, I am used to sleeping on the 
ground. Good night." 

I left the old man to his meditations, and 
walked on in company with the vintagers. 
Following a well-trodden pathway through the 
vineyards, we soon descended the valley's slope, 
and I suddenly found myself in the bosom 
of one of those little hamlets from which 
the laborer rises to his toil as the skylark to 
his song. My companions wished me a good 
night, as each entered his own thatch-roofed 
cottage, and a little girl led me out to the very 
inn which an hour or two before I had dis- 
dained to enter. 

When I awoke in the morning, a brilliant 
autumnal sun was shining in at my window. 
The merry song of birds mingled sweetly with 
the sound of rustling leaves and the gurgle of 



The Valley of the Loire 99 

the brook. The vintagers were going forth to 
their toil ; the wine-press was busy in the 
shade, and the clatter of the mill kept time to 
the miller's song. I loitered about the village 
with a feeling of calm delight. I was unwill- 
ing to leave the seclusion of this sequestered 
hamlet ; but at length, with reluctant step, I 
took the cross-road through the vineyard, and 
in a moment the little village had sunk again, 
as if by enchantment, into the bosom of the 
earth. 

I breakfasted at the town of Mer ; and, 
leaving the high-road to Blois on the right, 
passed down to the banks of the Loire, 
through a long, broad avenue of poplars and 
sycamores. I crossed the river in a boat, 
and in the after part of the day I found my- 
self before the high and massive walls of the 
chateau of Chambord. This chateau is one 
of the finest specimens of the ancient Gothic 
castle to be found in Europe. The little river 
Cosson fills its deep and ample moat, and 
above it the huge towers and heavy battle- 
ments rise in stern and solemn grandeur, 

ft 
moss-grown with age, and blackened by the 

storms of three centuries. Within, all is 
mournful and deserted. The grass has over- 



lOO The Valley of the Loire 

grown the pavement of the courtyard, and 
the rude sculpture upon the walls is broken 
and defaced. From the courtyard I entered 
the central tower, and, ascending the principal 
staircase, went out upon the battlements. I 
seemed to have stepped back into the pre- 
cincts of the feudal ages ; and, as I passed 
along through echoing corridors, and vast, de- 
serted halls, stripped of their furniture, and 
mouldering silently away, the distant past 
came back upon me ; and the times when the 
clang of arms, and the tramp of mail-clad men, 
and the sounds of music and revelry and was- 
sail, echoed along those high-vaulted and soli- 
tary chambers ! 

My third day's journey brought me to the 
ancient city of Blois, the chief town of the de- 
partment of Loire-et-Cher. This city is cel- 
ebrated for the purity with which even the 
lower classes of its inhabitants speak their na- 
tive tongue. It rises precipitously from the 
northern bank of the Loire ; and many of its 
streets are so steep as to be almost impassable 
for carriages. On the brow of the hill, over- 
looking the roofs of the city, and commanding 
a fine view of the Loire and its noble bridge, 
and the surrounding country, sprinkled with 



The Valley of the Loire loi 

cottages and chateaux, runs an ample terrace, 
planted with trees, and laid out as a public 
walk. The view from this terrace is one of 
the most beautiful in France. But what most 
strikes the eye of the traveller at Blois is an 
old, though still unfinished, castle. Its huge 
parapets of hewn stone stand upon either 
side of the street ; but they have walled up 
the wide gateway, from which the colossal 
drawbridge was to have sprung high in air, 
connecting together the main towers of the 
building, and the two hills upon whose slope 
its foundations stand. The aspect of this vast 
pile is gloomy and desolate. It seems as if 
the strong hand of the builder had been ar- 
rested in the midst of his task by the stronger 
hand of death ; and the unfinished fabric 
stands a lasting monument both of the power 
and weakness of man, — of his vast desires, 
his sanguine hopes, his ambitious purposes, — 
and of the unlooked-for conclusion, where all 
these desires, and hopes, and purposes are so 
often arrested. There is also at Blois another 
ancient chateau, to which some historic inter- 
est is attached, as being the scene of the mas- 
sacre of the Duke of Guise. 

On the following day, I left Blois for Am- 



I02 The Valley of the Loire 

boise ; and, after walking several leagues 
along the dusty highway, crossed the river in 
a boat to the little village of Moines, which 
lies amid luxuriant vineyards upon the south- 
ern bank of the Loire. From Moines to 
Amboise the road is truly delightful. The 
rich lowland scenery, by the margin of the 
river, is verdant even in October ; and oc- 
casionally the landscape is diversified with the 
picturesque cottages of the vintagers, cut in 
the rock along the roadside, and overhung by 
the thick foliage of the vines above them. 

At Amboise I took a cross-road, which led 
me to the romantic borders of the Cher and 
the chateau of Chenonceau. This beautiful 
chateau, as well as that of Chambord, was 
built by the gay and munificent Francis the 
First. One is a specimen of strong and mas- 
sive architecture, — a dwelling for a warrior ; 
but the other is of a lighter and more graceful 
construction, and was destined for those soft 
languishments of passion with which thfe fas- 
cinating Diane de Poitiers had filled the bosom 
of that voluptuous monarch. 

The chateau of Chenonceau is built upon 
arches across the river Cher, whose waters are 
made to supply the deep moat at each extrem- 



The Valley of the Loire 103 

ity. There is a spacious courtyard in front, 
from which a drawbridge conducts to the 
outer hall of the castle. There the armor 
of Francis the First still hangs upon the 
wall, — his shield, and helm, and lance, — as 
if the chivalrous prince had just exchanged 
them for the silken robes of the drawing-room. 
From this hall a door opens into a long gal- 
lery, extending the whole length of the build- 
ing across the Cher. The walls of the gallery 
are hung with the faded portraits of the long 
line of the descendants of Hugh Capet ; and 
the windows, looking up and down the stream, 
command a fine reach of pleasant river scen- 
ery. This is said to be the only chateau in 
France in which the ancient furniture of its 
original age is preserved. In one part of the 
building, you are shown the bed-chamber of 
Diane de Poitiers, with its antique chairs cov- 
ered with faded damask and embroidery, her 
bed, and a portrait of the royal favorite hang- 
ing over the mantelpiece. In another you see 
the apartment of the infamous Catherine de' 
Medici ; a venerable arm-chair and an auto- 
graph letter of Henry the Fourth ; and in an 
old laboratory, among broken crucibles, and 
neckless retorts, and drums, and trumpets, and 



I04 The Valley of the Loire 

skins of wild beasts, and other ancient lumber, 
of various kinds, are to be seen the bed-posts 
of Francis the First ! Doubtless the naked 
walls and the vast solitary chambers of an old 
and desolate chateau inspire a feeling of great- 
er solemnity and awe ; but when the antique 
furniture of the olden time remains, — the 
faded tapestry on the walls, and the arm-chair 
by the fireside, — the effect upon the mind is 
more magical and delightful. The old inhab- 
itants of the place, long gathered to their 
fathers, though living still in history, seem to 
have left their halls for the chase or the tour- 
nament ; and as the heavy door swings upon 
its reluctant hinge, one almost expects to see 
the gallant princes and courtly dames enter 
those halls again, and sweep in stately pro- 
cession along the silent corridors. 

Rapt in such fancies as these, and gazing 
on the beauties of this noble edifice, and the 
soft scenery around it, I lingered, unwilling to 
depart, till the rays of the setting sun, stream- 
ing through the dusty windows, admonished 
me that the day was drawing rapidly to a 
close. I sallied forth from the southern gate 
of the chateau, and crossing the broken draw- 
bridge, pursued a pathway along the bank of 



The Valley of the Loire 105 

the river, still gazing back upon those tow- 
ering walls, now bathed in the rich glow of 
sunset, till a turn in the road and a dump of 
woodland at length shut them out from my 
sight. 

A short time after candle-lighting, I reached 
the little tavern of the Boule d'Or, a few 
leagues from Tours, where I passed the night. 
The following morning was lowering and sad. 
A veil of mist hung over the landscape, and 
ever and anon a heavy shower burst from the 
overburdened clouds, that were driving by be- 
fore a high and piercing wind. This unpropi- 
tious state of the weather detained me until 
noon, when a cabriolet for Tours drove up ; and 
taking a seat within it, I left the hostess of the 
Boule d'Or in the middle of a long story about 
a rich countess, who always alighted there 
when she passed that way. We drove leis- 
urely along through a beautiful country, till at 
length we came to the brow of a steep hill, 
which commands a fine view of the city of 
Tours and its delightful environs. But the 
scene was shrouded by the heavy drifting mist, 
through which I could trace feut indistinctly 
the graceful sweep of the Loire, and the spires 
and roofs of the city far below me. 



io6 The Valley of the Loire 

The city of Tours and the delicious plain 
in which it lies have been too often described 
by other travellers to render a new description, 
from so listless a pen as mine, either necessary 
or desirable. After a sojourn of two cloudy 
and melancholy days, I set out on my return 
to Paris, by the way of Vendome and Chartres. 
I stopped a few hours at the former place, to 
examine the ruins of a chateau built by 
Jeanne d'Albret, mother of Henry the Fourth. 
It stands upon the summit of a high and pre- 
cipitous hill, and almost overhangs the town 
beneath. The French Revolution has com- 
pleted the ruin that time had already begun ; 
and nothing now remains, but a broken and 
crumbling bastion, and here and there a soli- 
tary tower dropping slowly to decay. In one 
of these is the grave of Jeanne d'Albret. A 
marble entablature in the wall above contains 
the inscription, which is nearly effaced, though 
enough still remains to tell the curious trav- 
eller that there lies buried the mother of the 
'' Bon Henri." To this is added a prayer that 
the repose of the dead may be respected. 

Here ended my foot excursion. The object 
of my journey was accomplished ; and, de- 
lighted with this short ramble through the 



The Valley of the Loire 107 

valley of the Loire, I took my seat in the dili- 
gence for Paris, and on the following day was 
again swallowed up in the crowds of the me- 
tropolis, like a drop in the bosom of the sea. 



THE TROU VERES 



Quant recommence et revient biaux estez, 

Que foille et flor resplendit par boschage, 
Que li froiz tanz de I'hyver est passez, 
Et oil oisel chantent en lor langage, 
Lors chanterai 
Et envoisiez serai 
De cuer verai. 

Jaques de Chison. 

THE literature of France is peculiarly rich 
in poetry of the olden time. We can 
trace up the stream of song until it is lost in 
the deepening shadows of the Middle Ages. 
Even there it is not a shallow tinkling rill; 
but it comes like a mountain stream, rushing 
and sounding onward through the enchanted 
regions of romance, and mingles its voice with 
the tramp of steeds and the brazen sound of 
arms. 

The glorious reign of Charlemagne,* at the 

* The following amusing description of this Restorer of Let- 
ters, as his biographers call him, is taken from the fabulous 
Chronicle of John Turpin, Chap. XX. 

•'The Emperor was of a ruddy complexion, ^vith brown 
hair ; of a well-made, handsome form, but a stem visage. 



The Trouveres 109 

close of the eighth and the commencement of 
the ninth century, seems to have breathed a 
spirit of learning as well as of chivalry 
throughout all France. The monarch estab- 
lished schools and academies in different parts 
of his realm, and took delight in the society 
and conversation of learned men. It is amus- 
ing to see with what evident self-satisfaction 
some of the magi whom he gathered around 
him speak of their exertions in widening the 
sphere of human knowledge, and pouring in 
light upon the darkness of their age. **For 
some," says Alcuin, the director of the school 

His height was about eight of his own feet, which were very 
long. He was of a strong, robust make ; his legs and thighs 
very stout, and his sinews firm. His face was thirteen inches 
long ; his beard a palm ; his nose half a palm ; his forehead a 
foot over. His lion-like eyes flashed fire like carbuncles ; his 
eyebrows were half a palm over. When he was angry, it was 
a terror to look upon him. He required eight spans for his 
girdle beside what hung loose. He ate sparingly of bread ; 
but a whole quarter of lamb, two fowls, a goose, or a large 
portion of pork ; a peacock, a crane, or a whole hare. He 
drank moderately of wine and water. He was so strong 
that he could at a single blow cleave asunder an armed sol* 
dier on horseback, from the head to the waist, and the horse 
likevdse. He easily vaulted over four horses harnessed to- 
gether ; and could raise an armed man from the ground to his 
head, as he stood erect upon his hand." 



no The Trouveres 

of St Martin de Tours, " I cause the honey 
of the Holy Scriptures to flow; I intoxicate 
others with the old wine of ancient history ; 
these I nourish with the fruits of grammar, 
gathered by my own hands ; and those I en- 
lighten by pointing out to them the stars, like 
lamps attached by the vaulted ceiling of a 
great palace!" 

Besides this classic erudition of the schools, 
the age had also its popular literature. Those 
who were untaught in scholastic wisdom were 
learned in traditionary lore ; for they had their 
ballads, in which were described the valor and 
achievements of the early kings of the Franks. 
These ballads, of which a collection was made 
by order of Charlemagne, animated the rude 
soldier as he rushed to battle, and were sung 
in the midnight bivouacs of the camp. '' Per- 
haps it is not too much to say," observes the 
literary historian Schlegel, "that we have still 
in our possession, if not the original language 
and form, at least the substance, of many of 
those ancient poems which were collected by 
the orders of that prince ; — I refer to the 
Nibelungenlied, and the collection which goes* 
by the name of the Heldenbuch." 

When at length the old Tudesque language, 



The Trouveres iii 

which was the court language of Charlemagne, 
had given place to the Langue d'Oil, the north- 
ern dialect of the French Romance, these an- 
cient ballads passed from the memories of the 
descendants of the Franks, and were succeed- 
ed by the romances of Charlemagne and his 
Twelve Peers, — of Rowland, and Olivir, and 
the other paladins who died at Roncesvalles. 
Robert Wace, a Norman Trouvere of the 
twelfth century, says in one of his poems, that 
a minstrel named Taillefer, mounted on a swift 
horse, went in front of the Norman army at 
the battle of Hastings, singing these ancient 
poems. 

These Chansons de Geste, or old historic ro- 
mances of France, are epic in their character, 
though, without doubt, they were written to be 
chanted to the sound of an instrument. To 
what period many of them belong, in their 
present form, has never yet been fully deter- 
mined ; and should it finally be proved by phil- 
ological research that they can claim no higher 
antiquity than the twelfth or thirteenth centu- 
ry, still there can be little doubt that in their 
original form many of them reached far back 
into the ninth or tenth. The long prevalent 
theory, that the romances of the Twelve Peers 



112 The Trouveres 

of France all originated in the fabulous chroni- 
cle of Charlemagne and Rowland, written by 
the Archbishop Turpin in the twelfth century, 
if not as yet generally exploded, is nevertheless 
fast losing ground. 

To the twelfth and thirteenth centuries also 
belong most of the Fabliaux, or metrical tales 
of the Trouveres. Many of these composi- 
tions are remarkable for the inventive talent 
they display, but as poems they have, general- 
ly speaking, little merit, and at times exhibit 
such a want of refinement, such open and gross 
obscenity, as to be highly offensive. 

It is a remarkable circumstance in the liter- 
ary history of France, that, while her antiqua- 
rians and scholars have devoted themselves 
to collecting and illustrating the poetry of the 
Troubadours, the early lyric poets of the South, 
that of the Trouveres, or Troubadours of the 
North, has been almost entirely neglected. By 
a singular fatality, too, what little time and 
attention have hitherto been bestowed upon 
the fathers of French poetry have been so di- 
rected as to save from oblivion little of the 
most valuable portions of their writings ; while 
the more tedious and worthless parts have 
been brought forth to the public eye, as if to 



The Trouveres 113 

deaden curiosity, and put an end to further 
research. The ancient historic romances of 
the land have, for the most part, been left to 
slumber unnoticed ; while the lewd and tire- 
some Fabliaux have been ushered into the 
world as fair specimens of the ancient poetry 
of France. This has created unjust prejudices 
in the minds of many against the literature of 
the olden time^ and has led them to regard it 
as nothing more than a confused mass of 
coarse and vulgar fictions, adapted to a rude 
and inelegant state of society. 

Of late, however, a more discerning judg- 
ment has been brought to the difficult task of 
ancient research ; and, in consequence of this, 
the long-established prejudice against the 
crumbling monuments of the national litera- 
ture of France during the Middle Ages is fast 
disappearing. Several learned men are en- 
gaged in rescuing from oblivion the ancient 
poetic romances of Charlemagne and the 
Twelve Peers of France, and their labors 
seem destined to throw new light, not only 
upon the state of literature, but upon the state 
of society, during the twelfth and thirteenth 
centuries. 

Among the voluminous remains of Trouba- 



114 The Trouveres 

dour literature, little else has yet been discov- 
ered than poems of a lyric character. The 
lyre of the Troubadour seems to have respond- 
ed to the impulse of momentary feelings only, 
— to the touch of local and transitory circum- 
stances. His song was a sudden burst of ex- 
cited feeling ; — it ceased when the passion 
was subdued, or rather when its first feverish 
excitement passed away ; and as the liveliest 
feelings are the most transitory, the songs 
which embodied them are short, but full of 
spirit and energy. On the other hand, the 
great mass of the poetry of the Trouveres is of 
a narrative or epic character. The genius of 
the North seems always to have delighted in 
romantic fiction ; and whether we attribute 
the origin of modern romance to the Arabians 
or to the Scandinavians, this at least is cer- 
tain that there existed marvellous tales in the 
Northern languages, and from these, in part at 
least, the Trouveres imbibed the spirit of nar- 
rative poetry. There are no traces of lyric 
compositions among their writings, till about 
the commencement of the thirteenth century ; 
and it seems probable that the spirit of song- 
writing was imbibed from the Troubadours of 
the South. 



The Trouveres 115 

Unfortunately, the neglect which has so long 
attended the old historic and heroic romances 
of the North of France has also befallen in 
some degree its early lyric poetry. Little has 
yet been done to discover and bring forth its 
riches ; and doubtless many a sweet little bal- 
lad and melancholy complaint lies buried in 
the dust of the thirteenth century. It is not, 
however, my object, in this paper, to give an 
historical sketch of this ancient and almost for- 
gotten poetry, but simply to bring forward a 
few specimens which shall exhibit its most 
striking and obvious characteristics. 

In these examples it would be in vain to 
look for high-wrought expression suited to the 
prevailing taste of the present day. Their 
most striking peculiarity, and perhaps their 
greatest merit, consists in the simple and di- 
rect expression of feeling which they contain. 
This feeling, too, is one which breathes the Ian*- 
guor of that submissive homage which was paid 
to beauty in the days of chivalry ; and I am 
aware, that, in this age of masculine and mat- 
ter-of-fact thinking, the love-conceits of a more 
poetic state of society are generally looked up- 
on as extremely trivial and puerile. Neverthe- 
less I shall venture to present one or two of 



ii6 The Trouveres 

these simple poems, which, by recalling the 
distant age wherein they were composed, may 
peradventure please by the power of contrast. 

I have just remarked that one of the great- 
est beauties of these ancient ditties is naiveti 
of thought and simplicity of expression These 
I shall endeavor to preserve as far as possible 
in the translation, though I am fully conscious 
how much the sparkling beauty of an original 
loses in being filtered through the idioms of a 
foreign language. 

The favorite theme of the ancient lyric poets 
of the North of France is the wayward passion 
of love. They all deHght to sing ^' les donees 
dolors et li mal plaisant de fine amorr With 
such feelings the beauties of the opening spring 
are naturally associated. Almost every love- 
ditty of the old poets commences with some 
such exordium as this : — '' When the snows of 
winter have passed away, when the soft and 
gentle spring returns, and the flower and leaf 
shoot in the groves, and the little birds warble 
to their mates in their own sweet language, — 
then will I sing my lady-love ! " 

Another favorite introduction to these little 
rhapsodies of romantic passion is the approach 
of morning and its sweet-voiced herald, tho 



The Trouveres 117 

lark. The minstrers song to his lady-love fre- 
quently commences with an allusion to the 
hour. 

" When the rose-bud opes its een. 
And the bluebells droop and die, 
And upon the leaves so green 
Sparkling dew-drops lie." 

The following is at once the simplest and 
prettiest piece of this kind which I have met 
with among the early lyric poets of the North 
of France. It is taken from an anonymous 
poem, entitled " The Paradise of Love." A 
lover, having passed the " livelong night in 
tears, as he was wont," goes forth to beguile 
his sorrows with the fragrance and beauty of 
morning. The carol of the vaulting skylark 
salutes his ear, and to this merry musician he 
makes his complaint. 

"Hark! hark! 

Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain ! 
But if to these longing arms 
Pitying Love would yield the charms 

Of the fair 

With smiling air, 
Blithe would beat my heart again. 

"Hark! hark! 
Pretty lark ! 
little heedest thou my pain ! 



Ii8 The Trouveres 

Love may force me still to bear. 
While he lists, consuming care ; 

But in anguish 

Though I languish, 
Faithful shall my heart remain. 

*' Hark ! hark ! 

Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain 1 
Then cease, Love, to V)nnent me so ; 
But rather than all tnuughts forego 

Of the fair 

With flaxen hair, 
Give me back her frowns again. 

" Hark ! hark ! 
Pretty lark ! 
Little heedest thou my pain ! " 

Besides the " woful ballad made to his mis. 
tress's eyebrow," the early lyric poet frequent- 
ly indulges in more calmly analyzing the 
philosophy of love, or in questioning the ob- 
ject and destination of a sigh. Occasionally 
these quaint conceits are prettily expressed, 
and the little song flutters through the page 
like a butterfly. The following is an ex- 
ample : — 

" And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
Breathed so softly in my ear ? 
Say, dost thou bear his fate severe 
To Love's poor martyr doomed to die ? 



The Trouveres 119 

Come, tell me quickly, — do not lie ; 

What secret message bring'st thou here ? 
And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 

Breathed so softly in my ear ? 

** May Heaven conduct thee to thy will, 
And safely speed thee on thy way ; 
This only I would humbly pray, — 

Pierce deep, — but O ! forbear to kill. 

And whither goest thou, gentle sigh, 
Breathed so softly in my ear?" 

The ancient lyric poets of France are gen- 
erally spoken of as a class, and their beau- 
ties and defects referred to them collectively, 
and not individually. In truth, there are few 
characteristic marks by which any individual 
author can be singled out and ranked above 
the rest. The lyric poets of the thirteenth 
and fourteenth centuries stand upon nearly 
the same level. But in the fifteenth century 
there were two who surpassed all their con- 
temporaries in the beauty and delicacy of 
their sentiments ; and in the sweetness of 
their diction, and the structure of their verse, 
stand far in advance of the age in which they 
lived. These are Charles d' Orleans and Clo- 
tilde de Surville. 

Charles, Duke of Orleans, the father of 
Louis the Twelfth, and uncle of Francis 



I20 The Trouveres 

the First, was born in 1391. In the general 
tenor of his life, the peculiar character of his 
mind, and his talent for poetry, there is a 
striking resemblance between this noble poet 
and James the First of Scotland, his con- 
temporary. Both were remarkable for learn- 
ing and refinement ; both passed a great por- 
tion of their lives in sorrow and imprisonment ; 
and both cheered the solitude of their prison- 
walls with the charms of poetry. Charles 
d' Orleans was taken prisoner at the battle of 
Agincourt, in 141 5, and carried into England, 
where he remained twenty-five years in cap- 
tivity. It was there that he composed the 
greater part of his poetry. 

The poems of this writer exhibit a singular 
delicacy of thought and sweetness of expres- 
sion. The following little Re7ioiiveaiiXy or 
songs on the return of spring, are full of 
delicacy and beauty. 

**Now Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wdnd, and rain. 
Pi vA clothes him in the embroidery 
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky. 
With beast and bird the forest rings. 
Each in his jargon cries or sings ; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. 



The Trouveres 121 

** River, and fount, and tinkling brook 
Wear in their dainty livery- 
Drops of silver jewelr)'- ; 
In new-made suit they merr}' look ; 
And Time throws off his cloak again 
Of ermined frost, and wind, and rain. " 

The second upon the same subject presents 
a still more agreeable picture of the departure 
of winter and the return of spring. 

** Gentle spring ! — in sunshine clad. 
Well dost thou thy power display ! 
For winter maketh the light heart sad. 

And thou, — thou makest the sad heart gay. 
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train. 
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain ; 
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 

** Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old 
Their beards of icicles and snow ; 
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold, 
We must cower over the embers low ; 
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather. 
Mope like birds that are changing feather. 
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear, 
When thy merry step draws near. 

** Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky- 
Wrap him round in a mantle of cloud ; 
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh ; 
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud, 
6 



122 Tlie Trouveres 

And the earth looks bright, — and winter surly, 
Who has toiled for naught both late and early. 
Is banished afar by the new-bom year, 

When thy merry step draws near." 

The only person of that age who can dispute 
the laurel with Charles d'Orleans is Clotilda 
de Surville. This poetess was born in the 
Bas-Vivarais, in the year 1405. Her style is 
singularly elegant and correct ; and the reader 
who will take the trouble to decipher her rude 
provincial orthography will find her writings 
full of quiet beauty. The following lines, 
which breathe the very soul of maternal ten- 
derness, are part of a poem to her first-born. 

" Sweet babe ! true portrait of thy father's face, 
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed ! 
Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast I 

** Upon that tender eye, my little friend. 

Soft sleep shall come that cometh not to me ! 
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; — 
'T is sweet to watch for thee, — alone for thee I 

** His arms fall down ; sleep sits upon his brow ; 

His eye is closed ; he sleeps, — how still and calm I 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow. 
Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm? 

** Awake, my boy ! — I tremble with affright ! 

Awake, and chase this fatal thought ! — unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 
Eren at the price of thine, give me repose 1 



The Trouvlres 123 



•* Sweet error ! — he but slept ; — I breathe again ; 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile ! 
O, when shall he for whom I sigh in vain 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile ? '* 



But upon this theme I have written enough, 
perhaps too much. 

** *This may be poetry, for aught I know,' 

Says an old, worthy friend of mine, while leaning 
Over my shoulder as I write, — ' although 
I can 't exactly comprehend its meaning.' " 

I have touched upon the subject before me 
in a brief and desultory manner, and have 
purposely left my remarks unencumbered by 
learned reference and far-sought erudition ; for 
these are ornaments which would ill become so 
trivial a pen as this wherewith I write, though, 
perchance, the want of them will render my 
essay unsatisfactory to the scholar and the 
critic. But I am emboldened thus to skim 
with a light wing over this poetic lore of the 
past, by the reflection, that the greater part of 
my readers belong not to that grave and sen- 
ous class who love the deep wisdom which lies 
in quoting from a quaint, forgotten tome, and 
who are ready on all occasions to say, " Com- 
mend me to the owl ! " 



THE BAPTISM OF FIRE 



The more you mow us down, the thicker we rise ; the Christian blood 

you spill is like the seed you sow, — it springs from the earth again and 

fructifies the more. 

Tertullian. 



AS day was drawing to a close, and the 
rays of the setting sun cUmbed slowly up 
the dungeon wall, the prisoner sat and read in 
a tome with silver clasps. He was a man in 
the vigor of his days, with a pale and noble 
countenance, that wore less the marks of 
worldly care than of high and holy thought. 
His temples were already bald ; but a thick 
and curling beard bespoke the strength of 
manhood; and his eye, dark, full, and elo- 
quent, beamed with all the enthusiasm of a 
martyr. 

The book before him was a volume of the 
early Christian Fathers. He was reading the 
Apologetic of the eloquent Tertullian, the old- 
est and ablest writer of the Latin Church. At 
times he paused, and raised his eyes to heaven 
as if in prayer, and then read on again in 



The Baptism of Fire 125 

silence. At length a passage seemed to touch 
his inmost soul. He read aloud : — 

"Give us, then, what names you please; 
from the instruments of cruelty you torture 
us by, call us Sarmenticians and Semaxians, 
because you fasten us to trunks of trees, and 
stick us about with fagots to set us on fire ; 
yet let me tell you, when we are thus begirt 
and dressed about with fire, we are then in 
our most illustrious apparel. These are our 
victorious palms and robes of glory ; and, 
mounted on our funeral pile, we look upon our- 
selves as in our triumphal chariot. No won- 
der, then, such passive heroes please not those 
they vanquish with such conquering sufier- 
ings. And therefore we pass for men of de- 
spair, and violently bent upon our own de- 
struction. However, what you are pleased to 
call madness and despair in us are the very 
actions which, under virtue's standard, lift up 
your sons of fame and glory, and emblazon 
them to future ages." 

He arose and paced the dungeon to and 
fro, with folded arms and a firm step. His 
thoughts held communion with eternity. 

" Father which art in heaven ! " he ex- 
claimed, "give me strength to die like those 



126 The Baptism of Fire 

holy men of old, who scorned to purchase life 
at the expense of truth. That truth has made 
me free ; and though condemned on earth, I 
know that I am absolved in heaven ! " 

He again seated himself at his table, and 
read in that tome with silver clasps. 

This solitary prisoner was Anne Du Bourg, 
a man who feared not man ; once a merciful 
judge in that august tribunal upon whose 
voice hung the life and death of those who 
were persecuted for conscience' sake, he was 
now himself an accused, a convicted heretic, 
condemned to the Baptism of Fire, because he 
would not unrighteously condemn others. He 
had dared to plead the cause of suffering hu- 
manity before that dread tribunal, and, in the 
presence of the king himself, to declare that it 
was an offence to the majesty of God to shed 
man's blood in his name. Six weary months 
— from June to December — he had lain a 
prisoner in that dungeon, from which a death 
by fire was soon to set him free. Such was 
the clemency of Henry the Second ! 

As the prisoner read, his eyes were filled 
with tears. He still gazed upon the printed 
page, but it was a blank before his eyes. His 
thoughts were far away amid the scenes of his 



The Baptism ' of Fire 127 

childhood, amid the green valleys of Riom and 
the Golden Mountains of- Auvergne. Some 
simple word had called up the vision of the 
past. He was a child again. He was playing 
with the pebbles of the brook, — he was shout- 
ing to the echo of the hills, — he was praying 
at his mother's knee, with his little hands 
clasped in hers. 

This dream of childhood was .broken by the 
gratmg of bolts and bars, as the jailer opened 
his prison-door. A moment afterward, his for- 
mer colleague, De Harley, stood at his side. 

" Thou here ! " exclaimed the prisoner, sur- 
prised at the visit. " Thou in the dungeon of 
a heretic ! On what errand hast thou come t " 

" On an errand of mercy," replied De Har- 
ley. "I come to tell thee " 

" That the hour of my death draws near ? " 

" That thou mayst still be saved." 

" Yes ; if I will bear false witness against 
my God, — barter heaven for earth, — an eter- 
nity for a few brief days of worldly existence. 
Lost, thou shouldst say, — lost, not saved ! " 

"No! saved!" cried De Harley with warmth ; 
" saved from a death of shame and an eternity 
of woe ! Renounce this false doctrine, — this 
abominable heresy, — and return again to the 



128 Ttie Baptism of Fire 

bosom of the church which thou dost rend 

with strife and dissension." 

"God judge between thee and me, which 
has embraced the truth." 

" His hand already smites thee." 

"It has fallen m^re heavily upon those who 
so unjustly persecute me. Where is the king } 
— he who said that with his own eyes he 
would behold me perish at the stake t — he to 
whom the undaunted Du Faur cried, like Eli- 
jah to Ahab, *It is thou who troublest Israel!' 
' — Where is the king ? Called, through a sud- 
den and violent death, to the judgment-seat of 
Heaven ! — Where is Minard, the persecutor 
of the just? Slain by the hand of an assas- 
sin ! It was not without reason that I said 
to him, when standing before my accusers, 
* Tremble ! believe the word of one who is 
about to appear before God ; thou likewise 
shalt jgtand there soon, — thou that sheddest 
the blood of the children of peace.' He has 
gone to his account before me." 

" And that menace has hastened thine own 
condemnation. Minard was slain by the Hu- 
guenots, and it is whispered that thou wast 
privy to his death." 

"This, at least, might have been spared a 



The Baptism of Fire 129 

dying man ! " replied the prisoner, much agi- 
tated by so unjust and so unexpected an accu- 
sation. " As I hope for mercy hereafter, I am 
innocent of the blood of this man, and of all 
knowledge of so foul a crime. But, tell me, 
hast thou come here only to embitter my last 
hours with such an accusation as this ? If so, 
1 pray thee, leave me. My moments are pre- 
cious. I would be alone." 

** I came to offer thee life, freedom, and hap- 
piness." 

" Life, — freedom, — happiness ! . At the 
price thou hast set upon them, I scorn them 
all ! Had the apostles and martyrs of the 
early Christian Church listened to such paltry 
bribes as these, where were now the faith in 
which we trust t These holy men of old shall 
answer for me. Hear what Justin Martyr 
says, in his earnest appeal to Antonine the 
Pious, in behalf of the Christians who in his 
day were unjustly loaded with public odium 
and oppression." 

He opened the volume before him and 
read : — 

" I could wish you would take this also into 
consideration, that what we say is really for 
your own good ; for it is in our power at any 

6* I 



1 30 The Baptism of Fire 

time to escape your torments by denying the 
faith, when you question us about it : but we 
scorn to purchase Hfe at the expense of a he ; 
for our souls are winged with a desire of a Hfe 
of eternal duration and purity, of an immediate 
conversation with God, the Father and Maker 
of all things. We are in haste to be confess- 
ing and finishing our faith ; being fully per- 
suaded that we shall arrive at this blessed 
state, if we approve ourselves to God by our 
works, and by our obedience express our pas- 
sion for that divine life which is never inter- 
rupted by any clashing evil." 

The Catholic and the Huguenot reasoned 
long and earnestly together ; but they rea- 
soned in vain. Each was firm in his belief; 
and they parted to meet no more on earth. 

On the following day, Du Bourg was sum- 
moned before his judges to receive his final 
sentence. He heard it unmoved, and with a 
prayer to God that he would pardon those 
who had condemned him according to their 
consciences. He then addressed his judges in 
an oration full of power and eloquence. It 
closed with these words : — 

"And now, ye judges, if, indeed, you hold 
the sword of God as ministers of his wrath, to 



The Baptism of Fire 131 

take vengeance upon those who do evil, be- 
ware, I charge you, beware how you condemn 
us. Consider well what evil we have done ; 
and, before all things, decide whether it be 
just that we should listen unto you rather 
than unto God. Are you so drunken with 
the wine-cup of the great sorceress, that you 
drink poison for nourishment } Are you not 
those who make the people sin, by turning 
them away from the service of God } And if 
you regard more the opinion of men than that 
of Heaven, in what esteem are you held by 
other nations, and principalities, and powers, 
for the martyrdoms you have caused in obe- 
dience to this blood-stained Phalaris } God 
grant, thou cruel tyrant, that by thy miserable 
death thou mayst put an end to our groans ! 

" Why weep ye } What means this delay ? 
Your hearts are heavy within you, — your 
consciences are haunted by the judgment of 
God. And thus it is that the condemned re- 
joice in the fires you have kindled, and think 
they never live better than in the midst of 
consuming flames. Torments affright them 
not, — insults enfeeble them not ; their honor 
is redeemed by death, — he that dies is the 
conqueror, and the conquered he that mourns. 



132 The Baptism of Fire 

^' No ! whateve-r snares are spread for us, 
whatever suffering we endure, you cannot 
separate us from the love of Christ. Strike, 
then, — slay, — grind us to powder ! Those 
that die in the Lord shall live again ; we shall 
all be raised together. Condemn me as you 
will, — I am a Christian ; yes, I am a Chris- 
tian, and am ready to die for the glory of our 
Lord, — for the truth of the Evangelists. 

" Quench, then, your fires ! Let the wicked 
abandon his way, and return unto the Lord, 
and he will have compassion on him. Live, — 
be happy, — and meditate on God, ye judges ! 
As for me, I go rejoicing to my death. What 
wait ye for } Lead me to the scaffold ! " 

They bound the prisoners hands, and, 
leading him forth from the council-chamber, 
placed him upon the cart that was to bear 
him to the Place de Greve. Before and be- 
hind marched a guard of five hundred sol- 
diers ; for Du Bourg was beloved by the peo- 
ple, and a popular tumult was apprehended. 
The day was overcast and sad ; and ever and 
anon the sound of the tolling bell mingled its 
dismal clang with the solemn notes of the 
funeral march. They soon reached the place 
of execution, which was already filled with a 



^ 



The Baptism of Fire 133 

dense. and silent crowd. In the centre stood 
the gallows, with a pile of fagots beneath it, 
and the executioner with a burning torch in 
his hand. But this funeral apparel inspired no 
terror in the heart of Du Bourg. A look of 
triumph beamed from his eye, and his coun- 
tenance shone like that of an angel. With 
his own hands he divested himself of his outer 
garments, and, gazing round upon the breath- 
less and sympathizing crowd, exclaimed, — 

" My friends, I come not hither as a thief or 
a murderer ; but it is for the Gospel's sake ! " 

A cord was then fastened round his waist, 
and he was drawn up into the air. At the 
same moment the burning torch of the execu- 
tioner was applied to the fagots beneath, and 
the thick volumes of smoke concealed the 
martyr from the horror-stricken crowd. One 
stifled groan arose from all that vast multitude, 
like the moan of the sea, and all was hushed 
again ; save the crackling of the fagots, and at 
intervals the funeral knell, that smote the very 
soul. The quivering flames darted upward 
and around ; and an agonizing cry broke from 
the murky cloud, — 

" My God ! my God ! forsake me not, that I 
forsake not thee ! " 



134 ^>^^ Baptis^n of Fire 

The wind lifted the reddening smoke like a 
veil, and the form of the martyr was seen to 
fall into the fire beneath. In a moment it rose 
again, its garments all in flame ; and again 
the faint, half-smothered cry of agony was 
heard, — 

" My God ! my God ! forsake me not, that I 
forsake not thee ! " 

Once more the quivering body descended in- 
to the flames ; and once more it was lifted into 
the air, a blackened, burning cinder. Again 
and again this fiendish mockery of baptism 
was repeated ; till the martyr, with a despair- 
ing, suffocating voice, exclaimed, — 

" O God ! I cannot die ! " 

The executioner came forward, and, either 
in mercy to the dying man or through fear 
of the populace, threw a noose over his neck, 
and strangled the almost lifeless victim. At 
the same moment the cord which held the 
body was loosened, and it fell into the fire to 
rise no more. And thus was consummated 
the martyrdom of the Baptism of Fire. 



\ 



coq-A-l'Ane 

My brain, methinks, is like an hour-glass, 
Wherein my imaginations run like sands, 
Filling up time ; but then are turned, and turned. 
So that I know not what to stay upon 
And less to put in art. 

Ben Jonson. 

A RAINY and gloomy winter was just 
drawing to its close, when I left Paris for 
the South of France. We started at sunrise ; 
and as we passed along the solitary streets of 
the vast and silent metropolis, drowsily one by 
one its clanging horologes chimed the hour of 
six. Beyond the city gates the wide landscape 
was covered with a silvery network of frost ; a 
Wreath of vapor overhung the windings of the 
Seine ; and every twig and shrub, with its 
sheath of crystal, flashed in the level rays of 
the rising sun. The sharp, frosty air seemed 
to quicken the sluggisii blood of the old postil- 
ion and his horses ; — a fresh team stood ready 
in harness at each stage ; and notwithstanding 
the slippery pavement of the causeway, the 
long and tedious climbing of the hillside, and 



1 36 Coq-a-rAne 

the equally long and tedious descent with 
chained wheels and the drag, just after night- 
fall the lumbering vehicle of Vincent Caillard 
stopped at the gateway of the " Three Empe- 
rors," in the famous city of Orleans. 

I cannot pride myself much upon being a 
good travelling-companion, for the rocking of a 
coach always lulls me into forgetfulness of the 
present ; and no sooner does the hollow, mo- 
notonous rumbling of the wheels reach my 
ear, than, like Nick Bottom, '* I have an expo- 
sition of sleep come upon me." It is not, 
however, the deep, sonorous slumber of a la- 
borer, "stuffed with distressful bread," but a 
kind of day-dream, wherein the creations of 
fancy seem realities, and the real world, which 
swims dizzily before the half-shut, drowsy eye, 
becomes mingled with the imaginary world 
within. This is doubtless a very great failing 
in a traveller ; and I confess, with all humility, 
that at times the line of demarcation between 
truth and fiction is rendered thereby so indefi- 
nite and indistinct, that I cannot always de- 
termine, with unerring certainty, whether an 
event really happened to me, or whether I 
only dreamed it. 

On this account I shall not attempt a de* 



Coq-a-l'Ane 137 

tailed description of my journey from Paris to 
Bordeaux. I was travelling like a bird of pas- 
sage ; and five weary days and four weary 
nights I was on the way. The diligence 
stopped only to change horses, and for the 
travellers to take their meals ; and by night I 
slept with my head under my wing in a snug 
corner of the coach. 

Strange as it may appear to some of my 
readers, this night-travelling is at times far 
from being disagreeable ; nay, if the country is 
flat and uninteresting, and you are favored 
with a moon, it may be veiy pleasant. As 
the night advances, the conversation around 
you gradually dies away, and is imperceptibly 
given up to some garrulous traveller who finds 
himself belated in the midst of a long story ; 
and when at length he puts out his feelers in 
the form of a question, discovers, by the si- 
lence around him, that the breathless attention 
of his audience is owing to their being asleep. 
All is now silent. You let down the window 
of the carriage, and the fresh night-air cools 
your flushed and burning cheek. The land- 
scape, though in reality dull and uninteresting, 
seems beautiful as it floats by in the soft 
moonshine. Every ruined hovel is changed 



138 Coq-a-VAne 

by the magic of night to a trim cottage, every 
' straggling and dilapidated hamlet becomes as 
beautiful as those we read of in poetry and ro- 
mance. Over the lowland hangs a silver mist ; 
over the hills peep the twinkling stars. The 
keen night-air is a spur to the postilion and 
his horses. In the words of the German bal- 
lad,— 

*' Halloo ! halloo ! away they go, 

Unheeding wet or dry, 
And horse and rider snort and blow^ 

And sparkling pebbles fly. 
And all on which the moon doth shine 

Behind them flees afar. 
And backward sped, scud overhead, 

The sky and every star. " 

Anon you stop at the relay. The drowsy 
hostler crawls out of the stable-yard ; a few 
gruff words and strange oaths pass between 
him and the postilion, — then there is a coarse 
joke in patois, of which you understand the 
ribaldry only, and which is followed by a 
husky laugh, a sound between a hiss and a 
growl ; — and then you are off again in a 
crack. Occasionally a way-traveller is un- 
caged, and a new-comer takes the vacant 
perch at your elbow. Meanwhile your busy 
fancy speculates upon all these things, and 



Coq-a-rAne. 139 

you fall asleep amid its thousand vagaries. 
Soon you wake again and snuff the morning 
air. It was but a moment, and yet the night 
is gone. The gray of twilight steals into the 
window, and gives a ghastly look to the coun- 
tenances of the sleeping group around you. 
One sits bolt upright in a corner, offending 
none, and stiff and motionless as an Egyptian 
mummy ; another sits equally straight and im- 
movable, but snores like a priest ; the head of 
a third is dangling over his shoulder, and the 
tassel of his nightcap tickles his neighbor's 
ear ; a fourth has lost his hat, — his wig is 
awry, and his under-lip hangs lolling about 
like an idiot's. The whole scene is a living 
caricature of man, presenting human nature in 
some of the grotesque attitudes she assumes 
when that pragmatical schoolmaster, Propriety, 
has fallen asleep in his chair, and the unruly 
members of his charge are freed from the 
thraldom of the rod. 

On leaving Orleans, instead of following the 
great western mail-route through Tours, Poi- 
tiers, and Angouleme, and thence on to Bor- 
deaux, I struck across the departments of the 
Indre, Haute- Vienne, and the Dordogne, pass- 
ing through the provincial capitals of Chateau- 



140 Coq-a-VAne 

roux, Limoges, and Perigueux. South of the 
Loire the country assumes a more mountain- 
ous aspect, and the landscape is broken by 
long sweeping hills and fertile valleys. Many 
a fair scene invites the traveller's foot to pause ; 
and his eye roves with delight over the pictu- 
resque landscape of the valley of the Creuse, and 
the beautiful highland scenery near Perigueux. 
There are also many objects of art and anti- 
quity which arrest his attention. Argenton 
boasts its Roman amphitheatre, and the ruins 
of an old castle built by King Pepin ; at Cha- 
ins the tower beneath which Richard Coeur- 
de-Lion was slain is still pointed out to the 
curious traveller ; and Perigueux is full of 
crumbling monuments of the Middle Ages. 

Scenes like these, and the constant chatter 
of my fellow-travellers, served to enliven the 
tedium of a long and fatiguing journey. The 
French are pre-eminently a talking people ; 
and every new object afforded a topic for light 
and animated discussion. The affairs of church 
and state were, however, the themes oftenest 
touched upon. The bill for the suppression of 
the liberty of the press was then under discus- 
sion in the Chamber of Peers, and excited the 
most lively interest through the whole king- 



Coq-a-VAne 141 

dom. Of course it was a subject not likely to 
be forgotten in a stage-coach. 

"Ah! mon Dieu!" said a brisk little man, 
with snow-white hair and a blazing red face, 
at the same time drawing up his shoulders to 
a level with his ears ; " the ministry are de- 
termined to carry their point at all events. 
They mean to break down the liberty of the 
press, cost what it will.'* 

" If they succeed," added the person who sat 
opposite, "we may thank the Jesuits for it. It 
is all their work. They rule the mind of our 
imbecile monarch, and it is their miserable 
policy to keep the people in darkness." 

"No doubt of that," rejoined the first speak- 
er. "Why, no longer ago than yesterday I 
read in the Figaro that a printer had been 
prosecuted for publishing the moral lessons of 
the Evangelists without the miracles." 

" Is it possible t " said I. " And are the 
people so stupid as thus patiently to offer 
their shoulders to the pack-saddle } " 

" Most certainly not ! We shall have an- 
other revolution." 

"If history speaks true, you have had rev- 
olutions enough, during the last century or 
two, to satisfy the most mercurial nation on 



142 Coq-a-rAne. 

earth. You have hardly been quiet a moment 
since the day of the Barricades and the mem- 
orable war of \ht pots-de-chambre in the times 
of the Grand Conde." 

"You are pleased to speak lightly of our 
revolutions, sir," rejoined the politician, grow- 
ing warm. " You must, however^, confess that 
each successive one has brought us nearer to 
our object. Old institutions, whose founda- 
tions lie deep in the prejudices of a great na- 
tion, are not to be toppled down by the spring- 
ing of a single mine. You must confess, too, 
that our national character is much improved 
since the days you speak of. The youth of 
the present century are not so frivolous as 
those of the last. They have no longer that 
unbounded levity and light-heartedness so gen- 
erally ascribed to them. From this circum- 
stance we have everything to hope. Our revo- 
lutions, likewise, must necessarily change their 
character and secure to us more solid advan- 
tages than heretofore." 

" Luck makes pluck, as the Germans say. 
You go on bravely ; but it gives me pain to 
see religion and the church so disregarded." 

" Superstition and the church, you mean," 
said the gray-headed man. " Why, sir, the 



Coq-a-rAfie 143 

church is nothing now-a-days but a tumble- 
down, dilapidated tower for rooks and daws, 
and such silly birds, to build their nests in I " 

It was now very evident that I had un- 
earthed a radical; and there is no knowing 
when his harangue would have ended, had 
not his voice been drowned by the noise of 
the wheels, as we entered the paved street 
of the city of Limoges. 

A breakfast of boiled capon stuiBfed with 
truffles, and accompanied by a Pate de Peri- 
gueux, a dish well known to French gourmands, 
restored us all to good-humor. While we were 
at breakfast, a personage stalked into the room, 
whose strange appearance arrested my atten- 
tion, and gave subject for future conversation 
to our party. He was a tall, thin figure, 
armed with a long whip, brass spurs, and 
black whiskers. He wore a bell-crowned, 
varnished hat, a blue frock-coat with standing 
collar, a red waistcoat, a pair of yellow leather 
breeches, and boots that reached to the knees. 
I at first took him for a postilion, or a private 
courier ; but, upon inquiry, I found that he 
was only the son of a notary-public, and that 
he dressed in this strange fashion to please his 
own fancy. 



A 

144 Cog-d-l'Ane 

As soon as we were comfortably seated in 
the diligence, I made some remark on the 
singular costume of the personage whom I 
had just seen at the tavern. 

"These things are so common with us," said 
the politician, "that we hardly notice them." 

" What you want in liberty of speech, then, 
you make up in liberty of dress .-^ " 

" Yes ; in this, at least, we are a free peo- 
ple." 

" I had not been long in France, before I 
discovered that a man may dress as he pleases, 
without being stared at. The most opposite 
styles of dress seem to be in vogue at the same 
moment. No strange garment nor desperate 
hat excites either ridicule or surprise. French 
fashions are known and imitated all the world 
over." 

"Very true, indeed," said a little man in 
gosling-green. " We give fashions to all other 
nations." 

" Fashions ! " said the politician, with a kind 
of growl, — " fashions ! Yes, sir, and some of 
us are simple enough to boast of it, as if we 
were a nation of tailors." 

Here the little man in gosling-green pulled 
up the horns of his cotton shirt-collar. 



ca 

k 



Coq-a-VAne 145 

**I recollect," said I, "that your Madame de 
Pompadour in one of her letters says some- 
thing to this effect : ' We furnish our enemies 
with hair-dressers, ribbons, and fashions ; and 
they furnish us with laws/ " 

"That is not the only silly thing she said 
in her lifetime. Ah ! sir, these Pompadours 
and Maintenons, and Montespans were the 
authors of much woe to France. Their follies 
and extravagances exhausted the public treas- 
ury, and made the nation poor. They built 
palaces, and covered themselves with jewels, 
and ate from golden plate ; while the people 
who toiled for them had hardly a crust to 
keep their own children from starvation ! 
And yet they preach to us the divine right 
of kings ! " 

My radical had got upon his high horse 
again ; and I know not whither it would have 
carried him, had not a thin man with a black, 
seedy coat, who sat at his elbow, at that mo- 
inent crossed his path by one of those abrupt 
and sudden transitions which leave you aghast 
at the strange association of ideas in the 
speaker's mind. 

^'Apropos de ^^//^^.^ " exclaimed he, " speak- 
ing of boots, and notaries public, and such 
7 J 



146 Coq-a-VAne 

matters, -r— excuse me for interrupting you, 
sir, — a little story has just popped into my 
head which may amuse the company ; and as 
I am not very fond of political discussions, — 
no offence, sir, — I will tell it, for the sake of 
changing the conversation." 

Whereupon, without further preamble or 
apology, he proceeded to tell his story in, as 
nearly as may be, the following worda 



THE NOTARY OF PERIGUEUX 



Do not trust thy body with a physician. He '11 make thy foolish bones 
go without flesh in a fortnight, and thy soul walk without a body a sen- 
night after. 

Shirley. 

YOU must know, gentlemen, that there 
lived some years ago, in the city of Peri- 
gueux, an honest notary-public, the descend- 
ant of a very ancient and broken-down family, 
and the occupant of one of those old weather- 
beaten tenements which remind you of the 
times of your great-grandfather. He was a 
man of an unoffending, quiet disposition ; the 
father of a family, though not the head of it, — 
for in that family "the hen overcrowed the 
cock," and the neighbors, when they spake 
of the notary, shrugged their shoulders, and 
exclaimed, " Poor fellow ! his spurs want sharp- 
ening." In fine, — you understand me, gen- 
tlemen, — he was hen-pecked. 

Well, finding no peace at home, he sought 
it elsewhere, as was very natural for him to 
do ; and at length discovered a place of rest. 



148 The Notary of Perigueux 

fax beyond the cares and clamors of domes- 
tic life. This was a little Cafe Estaminety a 
short way out of the city, whither he re- 
paired every evening to smoke his pipe, drink 
sugar-water, and play his favorite game of 
domino. There he met the boon companions 
he most loved ; heard all the floating chitchat 
of the day ; laughed when he was in merry 
mood ; found consolation when he was sad ; 
and at all times gave vent to his opinions, 
without fear of being snubbed short by a flat 
contradiction. 

Now, the notary's bosom-friend was a dealer 
in claret and cognac, who lived about a league 
from the city, and always passed his evenings 
at the Estaminet, He was a gross, corpulent 
fellow, raised from a full-blooded Gascon breed, 
and sired by a comic actor of some reputation 
in his way. He was remarkable for nothing 
but his good-humor, his love of cards, and a 
strong propensity to test the quality of his 
own liquors by comparing them with those 
sold at other places. 

As evil communications corrupt good man- 
ners, the bad practices of the wine-dealer won 
insensibly upon the worthy notary ; and before 
he was aware of it, he found himself weaned 



The Notary of Perigueux 149 

from domino and sugar-water, and addicted to 
piquet and spiced wine. Indeed, it not unfre- 
quently happened, that, after a long session at 
the Estammet, the two friends grew so urbane, 
that they would waste a full half-hour at the 
door in friendly dispute which should con- 
duct the other home. 

Though this course of life agreed well 
enough with the sluggish, phlegmatic tem- 
perament of the wine-dealer, it soon began to 
play the very dense with the more sensitive 
organization of the notary, and finally put his 
nervous system completely out of tune. He 
lost his appetite, became gaunt and haggard, 
and could get no sleep. Legions of blue-devils 
haunted him by day, and by night strange 
faces peeped through his bed-curtains, and the 
nightmare snorted in his ear. The worse he 
grew, the more he smoked and tippled ; and 
the more he smoked and tippled, — why, as a 
matter of course, the worse he grew. His wife 
alternately stormed, remonstrated, entreated ; 
but all in vain. She made the house too hot 
for him, — he retreated to the tavern ; she 
broke his long-stemmed pipes upon the and- 
irons, — he substituted a short-stemmed one, 
which, for safe keeping, he carried in his 
waistcoat-pocket. 



1 50 The Notary of Perigueux 

Thus the unhappy notary ran gradually 
down at the heel. What with his bad habits 
and his domestic grievances, he became com- 
pletely hipped. He imagined that he was go- 
ing to die ; and suffered in quick succession 
all the diseases that ever beset mortal man. 
Every shooting pain was an alarming symp- 
tom, — every uneasy feeling after dinner a 
sure prognostic of some mortal disease. In 
vain did his friends endeavor to reason, and 
then to laugh him out of his strange whims ; 
for when did ever jest or reason cure a sick 
imagination } His only answer was, " Do let 
me alone ; I know better than you what ails 
me." 

Well, gentlemen, things were in this state, 
when, one afternoon in December, as he sat 
moping in his office, wrapped in an overcoat, 
with a cap on his head and his feet thrust into 
a pair of furred slippers, a cabriolet stopped at 
the door, and a loud knocking without aroused 
him from his gloomy revery. It was a mes- 
sage from his friend the wine-dealer, who had 
been suddenly attacked with a violent fever, 
and grov/ing worse and worse, had now sent 
in the greatest haste for the notary to draw up 
his last will and testament. The case was ur- 



The Notary of Perigueux 151 

gent, and admitted neither excuse nor delay ; 
and the notary, tying a handkerchief round his 
face, and buttoning up to the chin, jumped 
into the cabriolet, and suffered himself, though 
not .without some dismal presentiments and 
misgivings of heart, to be driven to the wine- 
dealer's house. 

When he arrived, he found everything in the 
greatest confusion. On entering the house, he 
ran against the apothecary, who was coming 
down stairs, with a face as long as your arm ; 
and a few steps farther he met the house- 
keeper — for the wine-dealer was an old bach- 
elor — running up and down, and wringing 
her hands, for fear that the good man should 
die without making his will. He soon reached 
the chamber of his sick friend, and found him 
tossing about in a paroxysm of fever, and call- 
ing aloud for a draught of cold water. The 
notary shook his head ; he thought this a fatal 
symptom ; for ten years back the wine-dealer 
had been suffering under a species of hydro- 
phobia, which seemed suddenly to have left 
him. 

When the sick man saw who stood by his 
bedside, he stretched out his hand and ex- 
claimed, — 



152 The Notary of Perigueux 

"Ah! my dear friend! have you come at 
last ? You see it is all over with me. You 
have arrived just in time to draw up that — 
that passport of mine. Ah, grand diable! 
how hot it is here ! Water, — water, — wa- 
ter! Will nobody give me a drop of cold 
water ? " 

As the case was an urgent one, the notary 
made no delay in getting his papers in readi- 
ness ; and in a short time the last will and tes- 
tament of the wine-dealer was drawn up in 
due form, the notary guiding the sick man's 
hand as he scrawled his signature at the bot- 
tom. 

As the evening wore away, the wine-dealer 
grew worse and worse, and at length became 
delirious, mingling in his incoherent ravings 
the phrases of the Credo and Paternoster with 
the shibboleth of the dram-shop and the card- 
table. 

" Take care ! take care ! There, now — Cre- 
do in — Pop! ting-a-Hng-Hng ! give me some 
of that. Cent-e-dize ! Why, you old publican, 
this wine is poisoned, — I know your tricks ! — 
Sanctam ecclesiam catholicam — Well, well, we 
shall see. Imbecile! to have a tierce-major 
and a seven of hearts, and discard the seven ! 



The Notary of Perigueux 153 

By St. Anthony, capot ! You are lurched, — 
ha ! ha ! I told you so. I knew very well, — 
there, — there, — don't interrupt me — Carnis 
resurrectionem et vitatn eternam ! " 

With these words upon his lips, the poor 
wine-dealer expired. Meanwhile the notary 
sat cowering over the fire, aghast at the fearful 
scene that was passing before him, and now 
and then striving to keep up his courage by a 
glass of cognac. Already his fears were on 
the alert ; and the idea of contagion flitted to 
and fro through his mind. In order to quiet 
these thoughts of evil import, he lighted his 
pipe and began to prepare for returning home. 
At that moment the apothecary turned round 
to him and said, — 

" Dreadful sickly time, this ! The disorder 
seems to be spreading." 

" What disorder ? " exclaimed the notary, 
with a movement of surprise. 

"Two died yesterday, and three to-day," 
continued the apothecary, without answering 
the question. "Very sickly time, sir, — very." 

"But what disorder is it.? What disease 
has carried off my friend here so suddenly 1 " 

" What disease ? Why^ scarlet fever, to be 



sure." 



7* 



154 ^'^^ Notary of Periguetix 

"And is it contagious ?" 

" Certainly ! " 

"Then I am a dead man!" exclaimed the 
notary, putting his pipe into his waistcoat- 
pocket, and beginning to walk up and down 
the room in despair. " I am a dead man ! 
Now don't deceive me, — don't, will you ? 
What — what are the symptoms ? " 

"A sharp burning pain in the right side," 
said the apothecary. 

" O, what a fool I was to come here ! " 

In vain did the housekeeper and the apothe- 
cary strive to pacify him ; — he was not a man 
to be reasoned with ; he answered that he 
knew his own constitution better than they 
did, and insisted upon going home without de- 
lay. Unfortunately, the vehicle he came in 
had returned to the city ; and the whole neigh- 
borhood was abed and asleep. What was to 
be done "! Nothing in the world but to take 
the apothecary's horse, which stood hitched at 
the door, patiently waiting his master's will. 

Well, gentlemen, as there was no remedy, 
our notary mounted this raw-boned steed, and 
set forth upon his homeward journey. The 
night was cold and gusty, and the wind right 
in his teeth. Overhead the leaden clouds 



The Notary of Perigtceux 155 

were beating to and fro, and through them the 
newly risen moon seemed to be tossing and 
drifting along like a cock-boat in the surf; 
now swallowed up in a huge billow of cloud, 
and now lifted upon its bosom and dashed 
with silvery spray. The trees by the road-side 
groaned with a sound of evil omen ; and be- 
fore him lay three mortal miles, beset with a 
thousand imaginary perils. Obedient to the 
whip and spur, the steed leaped forward by 
fits and starts, now dashing away in a tremen- 
dous gallop, and now relaxing into a long, 
hard trot ; while the rider, filled with symp- 
toms of disease and dire presentiments of 
death, urged him on, as if he were fleeing be- 
fore the pestilence. 

In this way, by dint of whistling and shout- 
ing, and beating right and left, one mile of the 
fatal three was safely passed. The apprehen- 
sions of the notary had so far subsided, that he 
even suffered the poor horse to walk up hill ; 
but these apprehensions were suddenly re- 
vived again with tenfold violence by a sharp 
pain in the right side, which seemed to pierce 
him like a needle. 

" It is upon me at last ! " groaned the fear- 
stricken man. "Heaven be merciful to me^ 



156 The Notary of Perigueux 

the greatest of sinners ! And must I die in a 
ditch, after all ? He ! get up, — get up ! " 

And away went horse and rider at full 
speed, — hurry-scurry, — up hill and down, — 
panting and blowing like a whirlwind. At 
every leap the pain in the rider s side seemed 
to increase. At first it was a little point like 
the prick of a needle, — then it spread to the 
size of a half-franc piece, — then covered a 
place as large as the palm of your hand. It 
gained upon him fast. The poor man groaned 
aloud in agony ; faster and faster sped the 
horse over the frozen ground, — farther and 
farther spread the pain over his side. To 
complete the dismal picture, the storm com- 
menced, — snow mingled with rain. But snow, 
and rain, and cold were naught to him ; for, 
though his arms and legs were frozen to ici- 
cles, he felt it not ; the fatal symptom was up- 
on him ; he was doomed to die, — not of cold, 
but of scarlet fever ! 

At length, he knew not how, more dead 
than alive, he reached the gate of the city. A 
band of ill-bred dogs, that were serenading at 
a corner of the street, seeing the notary dash 
by, joined in the hue and cry, and ran barking 
and yelping at his heels. It was now late ai 



The Notary of Perigiceux 157 

night, and only here and there a soHtary lamp 
twinkled from an upper story. But on went 
the notary, down this street and up that, till at 
last he reached his own door. There was a 
light in his wife's bedroom. The good wo- 
man came to the window, alarmed at such a 
knocking, and howling, and clattering at her 
door so late at night ; and the notary was too 
deeply absorbed in his own sorrows to observe 
that the lamp cast the shadow of two heads on 
the window-curtain. 

'' Let me in ! let me in ! Quick ! quick ! '* 
he exclaimed, almost breathless from terror 
and fatigue. 

" Who are you, that come to disturb a lone 
woman at this hour of the night } " cried a 
sharp voice from above. " Begone about your 
business, and let quiet people sleep." 

** Come down and let me in ! I am your 
husband. Don't you know my voice } Quick, 
I beseech you ; for I am dying here in the 
street ! " 

After a few moments of delay and a few 
more words of parley, the door was opened, 
and the notary stalked into his domicile, pale 
and haggard in aspect, and as stiff and straight 
as a ghost. Cased from head to heel in an ar- 



158 The Notary of Perigueux 

mor of ice, as the glare of the lamp fell upon 
him, he looked like a knight-errant mailed in 
steel. But in one place his armor was broken. 
On his right side was a circular spot, as large 
as the crown of your hat, and about as black ! 

" My dear wife ! " he exclaimed, with more 
tenderness than he had exhibited for many 
years, " Reach me a chair. My hours are 
numbered. I am a dead man ! " 

Alarmed at these exclamations, his wife 
stripped off his overcoat. Something fell from 
beneath it, and was dashed to pieces on the 
hearth. It was the notary's pipe ! He placed 
his hand upon his side, and, lo ! it was bare 
to the skin ! Coat, waistcoat, and linen were 
burnt through and through, and there was a 
blister on his side as large as your hand ! 

The mystery was soon explained, symptom 
and all. The notary had put his pipe into his 
pocket without knocking out the ashes ! And 
so my story ends. 



" Is that all ? " asked the radical, when the 
story-teller had finished. 
" That is all." 
^ Well, what does your story prove } " 



The Notary of Perigiteux 159 

" That is more than I can tell. All I know 
is that the story is true." 

" And did he die ? " said the nice little man 
in gosling-green. 

" Yes ; he died afterwards," replied the sto- 
ry-teller, rather annoyed by the question. 

"And what did he die of .^" continued gos- 
ling-green, following him up. 

" What did he die of t why, he died — of a 
sudden ! " 



THE JOURNEY INTO SPAIN 



A Tissue de I'j'ver que le joly temps de primavere commence, et qu'on 
Toit arbres verdoyer, fleurs espanouir, et qu'on oit les oisillons chanter en 
toutt joie et doulceur, tant que les verts bocages retentissent de leurssons 
et que coeurs tristes pensifs y dolens s'en esjouissent, s'emeuvent di delais- 
ser deuil et toute tristesse, et se parforcent a valoir mieux. 

La Plaisante Histoire de Guerin de Monglavk. 



SOFT-BREATHING Spring! how many 
pleasant thoughts, how many delightful 
recollections, does thy name awaken in the 
mind of a traveller ! Whether he has followed 
thee by the banks of the Loire or the Guadal- 
quiver, or traced thy footsteps slowly climb- 
ing the sunny slope of Alp or Apennine, the 
thought of thee shall summon up sweet visions 
of the past, and thy golden sunshine and soft 
vapory atmosphere become a portion of his 
day-dreams and of him. Sweet images of 
thee, and scenes that have oft inspired the 
port's song, shall mingle in his recollections 
of the past. The shooting of the tender leaf, 
- — the sweetness and elasticity of the air, — the 
blue sky, — the fleet-drifting cloud, — and the 
flocks of wild fowl wheeling in long-drawn 



The Journey into Spain i6i 

phalanx through the air, and screaming from 
their dizzy height, — all these shall pass like a 
dream before his imagination, 

** And gently o'er his memory come at times 
A glimpse of joys that had their birth in thee. 
Like a brief strain of some forgotten tune." 

It was at the opening of this delightful sea- 
son of the year that I passed through the South 
of France, and took the road of St. Jean de Luz 
for the Spanish frontier. I left Bordeaux amid 
all the noise and gayety of the last scene of 
Carnival. The streets and public walks of the 
city were full of merry groups in m.asks^ — at 
every corner crowds were listening to the dis- 
cordant music of the wandering ballad-singer ; 
and grotesque figures, mounted on high stilts, 
and dressed in the garb of the peasants of 
the Landes of Gascony, were stalking up and 
down like so many long-legged cranes ; others 
were amusing themselves with the tricks and 
grimaces of little monkeys, disguised like little 
men, bowing to the ladies, and figuring away 
in red coats and ruifBes ; and here and there a 
band of chimney-sweeps were staring in stupid 
wonder at the miracles of a showman*s box. 
In a word, all was so full of mirth and merri- 
raake, that even beggary seemed to have for- 



1 62 The yourney into Spain 

gotten that it was wretched, and gloried in the 
ragged masquerade of one poor holiday. 

To this scene of noise and gayety succeeded 
the silence and solitude of the Landes of Gas- 
cony. The road from Bordeaux to Bayonne 
winds along through immense pine-forests and 
sandy plains, spotted here and there with a 
dingy little hovel, and the silence is inter- 
rupted only by the dismal hollow roar of the 
wind among the melancholy and majestic 
pines. Occasionally, however, the way is enli- 
vened by a market-town or a straggling vil- 
lage ; and I still recollect the feelings of de- 
light which I experienced, when, just after sun- 
set, we passed through the romantic town of 
Roquefort, built upon the sides of the green 
valley of the Douze, which has scooped out a 
verdant hollow for it to nestle in, amid those 
barren tracts of sand. 

On leaving Bayonne, the scene assumes a 
character of greater beauty and sublimity. To 
the vast forests of the Landes of Gascony suc- 
ceeds a scene of picturesque beauty, delightful 
to the traveller's eye. Before him rise the 
snowy Pyrenees, — a long line of undulating 
hills,— 

'* Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, 
Like giant capped ^vith helm of burnished gold." 



The yourney into Spain 163 

To the left, as far as the eye can reach, stretch 
the deHcious valleys of the Nive and Adour ; 
and to the right the sea flashes along the peb- 
bly margin of its silver beach, forming a thou- 
sand little bays and inlets, or comes tumbling 
in among the cliffs of a rock-bound coast, and 
beats against its massive barriers with a dis- 
tant, hollow, continual roar. 

Should these pages meet the eye of any soli- 
tary traveller who is journeying into Spain by 
the road I here speak of, I would advise him 
to travel from Bayonne to St. Jean de Luz on 
horseback. At the gate of Bayonne he will 
find a steed ready caparisoned for him, with a 
dark-eyed Basque girl for his companion and 
guide, who is to sit beside him upon the same 
horse. This style of travelling is, I believe, 
peculiar to the Basque provinces ; at all events, 
I have seen it nowhere else. The saddle is 
constructed with a large frame-work extend- 
ing on each side, and covered with cushions ; 
and the traveller and his guide, being placed 
on the opposite extremities, serve as a balance 
to each other. We overtook many travellers 
mounted in this way, and I could not help 
thinking it a mode of travelHng far prefer- 
able to being cooped up in a diligence. The 



164 The yourney into Spain 

Basque girls are generally beautiful ; and 
there was one of these merry guides we met 
upon the road to Bidart whose image haunts 
me still. She had large and expressive black 
eyes, teeth like pearls, a rich and sunburnt 
complexion, and hair of a glossy blackness, 
parted on the forehead, and falling down be- 
hind in a large braid, so long as almost to 
touch the ground with the little ribbon that 
confined it at the end. She wore the common 
dress of the peasantry of the South of France, 
and a large gypsy straw hat was thrown back 
over her shoulder, and tied by a ribbon about 
her neck. There was hardly a dusty traveller 
in the coach who did not envy her companion 
the seat he occupied beside her. 

Just at nightfall we entered the town of St. 
Jean de Luz, and dashed down its narrow 
streets at full gallop. The little madcap pos- 
tilion cracked his knotted whip incessantly, 
and the sound echoed back from the high 
dingy walls like the report of a pistol. The 
coach-wheels nearly touched the houses on 
each side of us ; the idlers in the street 
jumped right and left to save themselves ; win- 
dow-shutters flew open in all directions ; a 
thousand heads popped out from cellar and 



The Journey into Spain 165 

upper story ; " Sacr-r-re matin I " shouted the 
postilion, — and we rattled on like an earth- 
quake. 

St. Jean de Luz is a smoky little fishing- 
town, situated on the low grounds at the 
mouth of the Nivelle, and a bridge connects it 
with the faubourg of Sibourne, which stands 
on the opposite bank of the river. I had no 
time, however, to note the peculiarities of the 
place, for I was whirled out of it with the same 
speed and confusion with which I had been 
whirled in, and I can only recollect the sweep 
of the road across the Nivelle, — the church of 
Sibourne by the water's edge, — the narrow 
streets, — the smoky-looking houses with red 
window-shutters, and " a very ancient and fish- 
like smell." 

I passed by moonlight the little river Bi- 
dasoa, which forms the boundary between 
France and Spain ; and when the morning 
broke, found myself far up among the moun- 
tains of San Salvador, the most westerly links 
of the great Pyrenean chain. The mountains 
around me were neither rugged nor precipi- 
tous, but they rose one above another in a 
long, majestic swell, and the trace of the 
ploughshare was occasionally visible to their 



1 66 The yourney into Spain 

summits. They seemed entirely destitute of 
trees ; and as the season of vegetation had 
not yet commenced, their huge outhnes lay 
black, and barren, and desolate against the 
sky. But it was a glorious morning, and 
the sun rose up into a cloudless heaven, 
and poured a flood of gorgeous splendor over 
the mountain landscape, as if proud of the 
realm he shone upon. The scene was enliv- 
ened by the dashing of a swollen mountain- 
brook, whose course we followed for miles 
down the valley, as it leaped onward to its 
journey's end, now breaking into a white cas- 
cade, and now foaming and chafing beneath 
a rustic bridge. Now and then we drove 
through a dilapidated town, with a group o£ 
idlers at every corner, wrapped in tattered 
brown cloaks, and smoking their little paper 
cigars in the sun ; then would succeed a deso- 
late tract of country, cheered only by the 
tinkle of a mule-bell, or the song of a mule- 
teer ; then we would meet a solitary traveller 
mounted on horseback, and wrapped in the 
ample folds of his cloak, with a gun hanging 
at the pommel of his saddle. Occasionally^ 
too, among the bleak, inhospitable hills, we 
passed a rude little chapel, with a cluster of 



The yourney into Spain 167 

ruined cottages around it ; and whenever our 
carriage stopped at the relay, or loitered slow- 
ly up the hillside, a crowd of children would 
gather around us, with little images and cruci- 
fixes for sale, curiously ornamented with rib- 
bons and bits of tawdry finery. 

A day's journey from the frontier brought 
us to Vitoria, where the diligence stopped for 
the night. I spent the scanty remnant of day- 
light in rambling about the streets of the city, 
with no other guide than the whim of the mo- 
ment. Now I plunged down a dark and nar- 
row alley, now emerged into a wide street or a 
spacious market-place, and now aroused the 
drowsy echoes of a church or cloister with 
the sound of my intruding footsteps. But de- 
scriptions 01 churches and public squares are 
dull and tedious matters for those readers who 
are in search of amusement, and not of in- 
struction ; and if any one has accompanied 
me thus far on my fatiguing journey towards 
the Spanish capital, I will readily excuse him 
from the toil of an evening ramble through 
the streets of Vitoria. 

On the following morning we left the town, 
long before daybreak, and during our fore- 
noon's journey the postilion drew up at an inn, 



1 68 The Journey into Spain 

on the southern slope of the Sierra de San 
Lorenzo, in the province of Old Castile. The 
house was an old, dilapidated tenement, built 
of rough stone, and coarsely plastered upon 
the outside. The tiled roof had long been 
the sport of wind and rain, the motley coat 
of plaster was broken and time-worn, and the 
whole building sadly out of repair ; though 
the fanciful mouldings under the eaves, and 
the curiously carved wood-work that support- 
ed the little balcony over the principal en- 
trance, spoke of better days gone by. The 
whole building reminded me of a dilapidated 
Spanish Don, down at the heel and out at el- 
bows, but with here and there a remnant of 
former magnificence peeping through the loop- 
holes of his tattered cloak. 

A wide gateway ushered the traveller into 
the interior of the building, and conducted 
him to a low-roofed apartment, paved with 
round stones, and serving both as a court-yard 
and a stable. It seemed to be a neutral 
ground for man and beast, — a little republic, 
where horse and rider had common privileges, 
and mule and muleteer lay cheek by jowl. In 
one comer a poor jackass was patiently de- 
vouring a bundle of musty straw, — in an- 



The Journey into Spain 169 

other, its master lay sound asleep, with his 
saddle-cloth for a pillow ; here a group of 
muleteers were quarrelling over a pack of 
dirty cards, — and there the village barber, 
with a self-important air, stood laving the Al- 
calde's chin from the helmet of Mambrino. On 
the wall, a little taper glimmered feebly before 
an image of St. Anthony ; directly opposite 
these a leathern wine-bottle hung by the neck 
from a pair of ox-horns ; and the pavement 
below was covered with a curious medley of 
boxes, and bags, and cloaks, and pack-saddles, 
and sacks of grain, and skins of wine, and all 
kinds of lumber. 

A small door upon the right led us into the 
inn-kitchen. It was a room about ten feet 
square, and literally all chimney ; for the 
hearth was in the centre of the floor, and the 
walls sloped upward in the form of a long, nar- 
row pyramid, with an opening at the top for 
the escape of the smoke. Quite round this lit- 
tle room ran a row of benches, upon which sat 
one or two grave personages smoking paper 
cigars. Upon the hearth blazed a handful of 
fagots, whose bright flame danced merrily 
among a motley congregation of pots and ket- 
tles, and a long wreath of smoke wound lazily 



170 The Journey into Spain 

up through the huge tunnel of the roof above. 
The walls were black with soot, and orna- 
mented with sundry legs of bacon and festoons 
of sausages ; and as there were no windows in 
this dingy abode, the only light which cheered 
the darkness within, came flickering from the 
fire upon the hearth, and the smoky sunbeams 
that peeped down the long-necked chimney. 

I had not been long seated by the fire, when 
the tinkling of mule-bells, the clatter of hoofs, 
and the hoarse voice of a muleteer in the 
outer apartment, announced the arrival of new 
guests. A few moments afterward the kitch- 
en-door opened, and a person entered, whose 
appearance strongly arrested my attention. It 
was a tall, athletic figure, with the majestic 
carriage of a grandee, and a dark, sunburnt 
countenance, that indicated an age of about 
fifty years. His dress was singular, and such 
as I had not before seen. He wore a round 
hat with wide, flapping brim, from beneath 
which his long, black hair hung in curls upon 
his shoulders ; a leather jerkin, with cloth 
sleeves, descended to his hips ; around his 
waist was closely buckled a leather belt, with a 
cartouch-box on one side ; a pair of loose 
trousers of black serge hung in ample folds to 



The yourney into Spain 171 

the knees, around which they were closely 
gathered by embroidered garters of blue silk ; 
and black broadcloth leggins, buttoned close 
to the calves, and strapped over a pair of 
brown leather shoes, completed the singular 
dress of the stranger. He doffed his hat as he 
entered, and, saluting the company with a 
" Dios giiarde a UstedeSy caballeros " (God guard 
you, Gentlemen), took a seat by the fire, and en- 
tered into conversation with those around him. 

As my curiosity was not a little excited by 
the peculiar dress of this person, I inquired of 
a travelling companion, who sat at my elbow, 
who and what this new-comer was. From 
him I learned that he was a muleteer of the 
Maragateria, — a name given to a cluster of 
small towns which lie in the mountainous 
country between Astorga and Villafranca, in 
the western corner of the kingdom of Leon. 

" Nearly every province in Spain," said he, 
"has its peculiar costume, as you will see, 
when you have advanced farther into our coun- 
try. For instance, the Catalonians wear crim- 
son caps, hanging down upon the shoulder 
like a sack ; wide pantaloons of green velvet, 
long enough in the waistband to cover the 
whole breast ; and a little strip of a jacket. 



172 The yourney into Spain 

made of the same material, and so short as to 
bring the pocket directly under the armpit 
The Valencians, on the contrary, go almost 
naked : a linen shirt, white linen trousers, 
reaching no lower than the knees, and a pair 
of coarse leather sandals complete their simple 
garb; it is only in mid-winter that they in- 
dulge in the luxury of a jacket. The most 
beautiful and expensive costume, however, is 
that of Andalusia ; it consists of a velvet jack- 
et, faced with rich and various-colored em- 
broidery, and covered with tassels and silken 
cord ; a waistcoat of some gay color ; a silken 
handkerchief round the neck, and a crimson 
sash round the waist ; breeches that button 
down each side ; gaiters and shoes of white 
leather ; and a handkerchief of bright-colored 
silk wound about the head like a turban, and 
surmounted by a velvet cap or a little round 
hat, with a wide band, and an abundance of 
silken loops and tassels. The Old Castilians 
are more grave in their attire : they wear a 
leather breastplate instead of a jacket, breeches 
and leggins, and a montera cap. This fellow 
is a Maragato ; and in the villages of the Mar- 
agateria the costume varies a little from the 
rest of Leon and Castile." 



The yourney into Spain 173 

"If he is indeed a Maragato," said I, jesting- 
ly, "who knows but he may be a descendant 
of the muleteer who behaved so naughtily at 
Cacabelos, as related in the second chapter of 
the veracious history of Gil Bias de Santilla- 
na?" 

'' I Quien sabef' was the reply. "Notwith- 
standing the pride which even the meanest 
Castilian feels in counting over a long line of 
good-for-nothing ancestors, the science of gen- 
ealogy has become of late a very intricate 
study in Spain." 

Here our conversation was cut short by the 
Mayoral of the diligence, who came to tell us 
that the mules were waiting ; and before many 
hours had elapsed, we were scrambling through 
the square of the ancient city of Burgos. On 
the morrow we crossed the river Duero and 
the Guadarrama Mountains, and early in the 
afternoon entered the " Heroica Villa/' of Ma- 
drid, by the Puerta de Fuencarral. 



SPAIN 



Santiago y cierra Espana ! 

Spanish War-crt. 



IT is a beautiful morning in June; — so 
beautiful, that I almost fancy myself in 
Spain. The tesselated shadow of the honey- 
suckle lies motionless upon the floor, as if it 
were a figure in the carpet ; and through the 
open window comes the fragrance of the wild- 
brier and the mock-orange, reminding me of 
that soft, sunny clime where the very air is 
laden, like the bee, with sweetness, and the 
south wind 

'* Comes over gardens, and the flowers 
That kissed it are betrayed." 

The birds are carolling in the trees, and their 
shadows flit across the window as they dart to 
and fro in the sunshine ; while the murmur of 
the bee, the cooing of doves from the eaves, 
and the whirring of a little humming-bird that 
has its nest in the honeysuckle, send up a 
sound of joy to meet the rising sun. How like 



Spain 175 

the climate of the South ! How like a sum- 
mer morning in Spain ! 

My recollections of Spain are of the most 
lively and delightful kind. The character of 
the soil and of its inhabitants, — the stormy 
mountains and free spirits of the North, — the 
prodigal luxuriance and gay voluptuousness of 
the South, — the history and traditions of the 
past, resembling more the fables of romance 
than the solemn chronicle of events, — a soft 
and yet majestic language that falls like mar- 
tial music on the ear, and a literature rich in 
the attractive lore of poetry and fiction, — 
these, but not these alone, are my reminis- 
cences of Spain. With these I recall the 
thousand little circumstances and enjoyments 
which always give a coloring to our recollec- 
tions of the past ; the clear sky, — the pure, 
balmy air, — the delicious fruits and flowers, — 
the wild-fig and the aloe, and the olive by 
the wayside, — all, all that makes existence 
so joyous, and renders the sons and daugh- 
ters of that clime the children of impulse and 
sensation. 

As I write these words, a shade of sadness 
steals over me. When I think what that glo- 
rious land might be, and what it is, — what 



176 Spain 

nature intended it should be, and what man 
has made it, — my very heart sinks within me. 
My mind instinctively reverts from the degra- 
dation of the present to the glory of the past; 
or, looking forward with strong misgivings, but 
with yet stronger hopes, interrogates the future. 

The burnished armor of the Cid stands in 
the archives of the royal museum of Madrid, 
and there, too, is seen the armor of Ferdinand 
and of Isabel, of Guzman the Good and of Gon- 
zalo de Cordova, and other early champions 
of Spain ; but what hand shall now wield the 
sword of the Campeador, or lift up the banner 
of Leon and Castile t The ruins of Christian 
castle and Moorish alcAz^iv still look forth from 
the hills of Spain ; but where, O where is the 
spirit of freedom that once fired the children 
of the Goth ? Where is the spirit of Bernardo 
del Carpio, and Perez de Vargas, and Alonzo 
de Aguilar ? Shall it forever sleep ? Shall it 
never again beat high in the hearts of their 
sons ? Shall the descendants of Pelayo bow 
forever beneath an iron yoke, "like cattle 
whose despair is dumb ? '' 

The dust of the Cid lies mingling with the 
dust of Old Castile ; but his spirit is not bur- 
ied with his ashes. It sleeps, but is not dead 



Spain 177 

The day will come, when the foot of the tyrant 
shall be shaken from the neck of Spain ; when 
a brave and generous people, though now igno- 
rant, degraded, and much abused, shall " know 
their rights, and knowing dare maintain." 

Of the national character of Spain I have 
brought away this impression ; that its promi- 
nent traits are a generous pride of birth, a 
superstitious devotion to the dogmas of the 
Church, and an innate dignity, which exhibits 
itself even in the common and every-day em- 
ployments of life. Castilian pride is proverb- 
ial. A beggar wraps his tattered cloak around 
him with all the dignity of a Roman senator ; 
and a muleteer bestrides his beast of burden 
with the air of a grandee. 

I have thought, too, that there was a tinge 
of sadness in the Spanish character. The na- 
tional music of the land is remarkable for its 
melancholy tone ; and at times the voice of a 
peasant, singing amid the silence and solitude 
of the mountains, falls upon the ear like a fu- 
neral chant. Even a Spanish holiday wears a 
look of sadness, — a circumstance which some 
writers attribute to the cruel and overbearing 
spirit of the municipal laws. " Chi the greatest 
festivals," says Jovellanos, " instead of that 



178 Spain 

boisterous merriment and noise which should 
bespeak the joy of the inhabitants, there 
reigns throughout the streets and market- 
places a slothful inactivity, a gloomy stillness, 
which cannot be remarked without mingled 
emotions of surprise and pity. The few per- 
sons who leave their houses seem to be driven 
from them by listlessness, and dragged as far 
as the threshold, the market, or the church- 
door ; there, muffled in their cloaks, leaning^ 
against a corner, seated on a bench, or loung- 
ing to and fro, without object, aim, or pur- 
pose, they pass their hours, their whole even- 
ings, without mirth, recreation, or amusement. 
When you add to this picture the dreariness 
and filth of the villages, the poor and slovenly 
dress of the inhabitants, the gloominess and 
silence of their air, the laziness, the want of 
concert and union so striking everywhere, who 
but would be astonished, who but would be 
afflicted by so mournful a phenomenon ? This 
is not, indeed, the place to expose the errors 
which conspire to produce it ; but, whatever 
those errors may be, one point is clear, — that 
they are all to be found in the laws ! " * 

• Informe dado a la Real Academia de Historia sobre Jue- 
gos, Espectaculos, y Diversiones Publicas. 



Spain 1 79 

Of the same serious, sombre character is the 
favorite national sport, — the bull-fight. It is 
a barbarous amusement, but of all others the 
most exciting, the most spirit-stirring ; and 
in Spain, the most popular. " If Rome lived 
content with bread and arms," says the author 
I have just quoted, in a spirited little discourse 
entitled Pait y ToroSy " Madrid lives content 
with bread and bulls." 

Shall I describe a Spanish bull-fight .^ No. 
It has been so often and so well described by 
other pens that mine shall not undertake it, 
though it is a tempting theme. I cannot, 
however, refuse myself the pleasure of quoting 
here a few lines from one of the old Spanish 
ballads upon this subject. It is entitled " The 
Bull-fight of Ganzul." The description of the 
bull, which is contained in the passage I here 
extract, is drawn with a master's hand. It is 
rather a paraphrase than a translation, by Mr. 
Lockhart. 

** From Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, 
From Guadalarif of the plain, nor Barves of the hill ; 
But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, 
Beneath the oak-trees was he nursed, this proud and stately 
steer. 

" Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, 
And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the tiir- 
moil. 



l8o Spain 

His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow ; 
But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the 
foe. 

** Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and 

near, 
From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they 

appear ; 
His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, knotted tree, 
"Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye 

see. 

" His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black 

as night ; 
Like a strong flail he holds his tail, in fierceness of his 

might ; 
Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the 

rock, 
Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde's shock. 

•* Now stops the drum, — close, close they come ; thrice meet 
and thrice give back ; 
The white foam of Harpado hes on the charger's breast of 

black ; 
The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of dun ; — 
Once more advance upon his lance, — once more, thou fear- 
less one ! " 

There are various circumstances closely 
connected with the train of thought I have 
here touched upon ; but I forbear to mention 
them, for fear of drawing out this chapter to 



Spain i8i 

too great a length. Some of them will natu- 
rally find a place hereafter. Meanwhile let us 
turn the leaf to a new chapter, and to subjects 
of a livelier nature. 



A TAILOR'S DRAWER 



Nedyls, threde, thymbell, shers, and all suche knackes. 

The Four Ps 



I. 

A TAILOR'S drawer, did you say ? 
Yes ; a tailor s drawer. It is, indeed, 
rather a quaint rubric for a chapter in the pil- 
grim's breviary ; albeit it well befits the mot- 
ley character of the following pages. It is a 
title which the Spaniards give to a desulto- 
ry discourse, wherein various and discordant 
themes are touched upon, and which is 
crammed full of little shreds and patches of 
erudition ; and certainly it is not inappropri- 
ate to a chapter whose contents are of every 
shape and hue, and ''do no more adhere and 
keep pace together than the hundredth psalm 
to the tune of Green Sleeves." 

II. 

It is recorded in the Adventures of Gil Bias 
de Santillana, that, when this renowned per- 
sonage first visited the city of Madrid, he took 



A Tailor* s Drawer 183 

lodgings at the house of Mateo Melandez, in 
the Puerta del Sol. In choosing a place of 
abode in the Spanish court, I followed, as far 
as practicable, this illustrious example ; but, as 
the kind-hearted Mateo had been long gath- 
ered to his fathers, I was content to take up 
my residence in the hired house of Valentin 
Gonzalez, at the foot of the Calle de la Mon- 
tera. My apartments were in the third story, 
above the dust, though not beyond the rattle, 
of the street ; and my balconies looked down 
into the Puerta del Sol, the heart of Madrid, 
through which circulates the living current of 
its population at least once every twenty-four 
hours. 

The Puerta del Sol is a public square, from 
which diverge the five principal streets of the 
metropolis. It is the great rendezvous of 
grave and gay, — of priest and layman, — of 
gentle and simple, — the mart of business and 
of gossip, — the place where the creditor seeks 
his debtor, where the lawyer seeks his client, 
where the stranger seeks amusement, where 
the friend seeks his friend, and the foe his 
foe ; where the idler seeks the sun in winter, 
and the shade in summer, and the busybody 
seeks the daily news, and picks up the crumbs 



184 A Tailor's Drawer 

of gossip to fly away with them in his beak to 
the ta^ticlia of Dona Paquita ! 

Tell me, ye who have sojourned in foreign 
lands, and know in what bubbles a traveller's 
happiness consists, — is it not a blessing to 
have your window overlook a scene like this ? 

III. 

There, — take that chair upon the balcony, 
and let us look down upon the busy scene 
beneath us. What a continued roar the 
crowded thoroughfare sends up ! Though 
three stories high, we can hardly hear the 
sound of our own voices ! The London cries 
are whispers, when compared with the cries of 
Madrid. 

See, — yonder stalks a gigantic peasant of 
New Castile, with a montera cap, brown jacket 
and breeches, and coarse blue stockings, forc- 
ing his way through the crowd, and leading a 
donkey laden with charcoal, whose sonorous 
bray is in unison with the harsh voice of his 
master. Close at his elbow goes a rosy- 
cheeked damsel, selling calico. She is an 
Asturian from the mountains of Santander. 
How do you know } By her short yellow pet- 
ticoats, — her blue bodice, — her coral necklace 



A Tailor's Drawer 185 

and ear-rings. Through the middle of the 
square struts a peasant of Old Castile, with 
his yellow leather jerkin strapped about his 
waist, — his brown leggins and his blue gar- 
ters, — driving before him a flock of gabbling 
turkeys, and crying, at the top of his voice, 
" Pao, pao, pavitos, paos ! " Next comes a Va- 
lencian, with his loose linen trousers and san- 
dal shoon, holding a huge sack of watermelons 
upon his shoulder with his left hand, and with 
his right balancing high in air a specimen of 
the luscious fruit, upon which is perched a little 
pyramid of the crimson pulp, while he tempts 
the passers-by with " A cala, y calando; una 
sandia vendo-0-0. Si esto es sangre!'' (By the 
slice, — come and try it, — watermelon for 
sale. This is blood!) His companion near 
him has a pair of scales thrown over his shoul- 
der, and holds both arms full of muskmelons. 
He chimes into the harmonious ditty with 
" Melo — melo-O'O — meloncitos ; aqiii estd el 
azucar ! " (Melons, melons ; here is the sugar !) 
Behind them creeps a slow-moving Asturian, 
in heavy wooden shoes, crying watercresses ; 
and a peasant woman from the Guadarrama 
Mountains, with a montera cocked up in front, 
and a blue kerchief tied under her chin, 



1 86 A Tailor'* s Drawer 

swings in each hand a bunch of live chickens, 
• — that hang by the claws, head downwards, 
fluttering, scratching, crowing with all their 
might, while the good woman tries to drown 
their voices in the discordant cry of '' ^ Qiden 
vie compra tin gallo, — ten par de gallinas ? '* 
(Who buys a cock, — a pair of fowls ?) That 
tall fellow in blue, with a pot of flowers upon 
his shoulder, is a wag, beyond all dispute. 
See how cunningly he cocks his eye up at us, 
and cries, '' Si yo tuviera balcon!'' (If I only 
had a balcony !) 

What next ? A Manchego with a sack of 
oil under his arm ; a Gallego with a huge 
water-jar upon his shoulders ; an Italian ped- 
ler with images of saints and madonnas ; a 
Tazor-grinder with his wheel ; a mender of 
pots and kettles, making music, as he goes, 
tvith a shovel and a frying-pan ; and, in fine, a 
noisy, patchwork, ever-changing crowd, whose 
discordant cries mingle with the rumbling of 
wheels, the clatter of hoofs, and the clang of 
church-bells ; and make the Puerta del Sol, 
at certain hours of the day^ like a street in 
Babylon the Great. 



A Tailor's Drawer 187 

IV. 

Chiton ! A beautiful girl, with flaxen hair, 
blue eyes, and the form of a fairy in a midsum- 
mer night's dream, has just stepped out on 
the balcony beneath us ! See how coquettishly 
she crosses her arms upon the balcony, thrusts 
her dainty little foot through the bars, and 
plays with her slipper ! She is an Andalu- 
sian, from Malaga. Her brother is a bold 
dragoon, and wears a long sword ; so beware ! 
and " let not the creaking of shoes and the 
rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to 
woman/' Her mother is a vulgar woman, 
"fat and forty''; eats garlic in her salad, and 
smokes cigars. But mind ! that is a secret ; I 
tell it to you in confidence. 



The following little ditty I translate from 
the Spanish. It is as delicate as a dew-drop. 

She is a maid of artless grace, 
Gentle in form, and fair of face. 

Tell me, thou ancient mariner, 

That sailest on the sea, 
If ship, or sail, or evening star 

Be half so fair as she I 



1 88 A Tailor's Drawer 

Tell me, thou gallant cavalier, 

Whose shining arms I see, 
If steed, or sword, or battle-field 

Be half so fair as she ! 

Tell me, thou swain, that guard'st thy flock 

Beneath the shadowy tree, 
If flock, or vale, or mountain-ridge 

Be half so fair as she ! 



VI. 

A MILLER has just passed by, covered with 
flour from head to foot, and perched upon the 
tip end of a Httle donkey, crying ^^ Arre bor- 
rico ! " and at every cry swinging a cudgel in 
his hand, and giving the ribs of the poor beast 
what in the vulgar dialect is called a cachipor- 
raze. I could not help laughing, though I felt 
provoked with the fellow for his cruelty. The 
truth is, I have great regard for a jackass. 
His meekness, and patience, and long-suffer- 
ing are very amiable qualities, and, consider- 
ing his situation, worthy of all praise. In 
Spain, a donkey plays as conspicuous a part as 
a priest or a village alcalde. There would be 
no getting along without him. And yet, who 
80 beaten and abused as he ^ 



A TailoT^s Drawer 189 

, VII. 

Hepie comes a gay gallant, with white kid 
gloves, an eye-glass, a black cane, with a white 
ivory pommel, and a little hat, cocked pertly 
on one side of his head. He is an exquisite 
fop, and a great lady's man. You will always 
find him on the Prado at sunset, when the 
crowd and dust are thickest, ogling through 
his glass, flourishing his cane, and humming 
between his teeth some favorite air of the 
Semiramis, or the Barber of Seville. He is a 
great amateur, and patron of the Italian 
Opera, — beats time with his cane, — nods his 
head, and cries Bravo ! — and fancies himself 
in love with the Prima Donna. The height of 
his ambition is to be thought the gay Lothario, 
— the gallant Don Cortejo of his little sphere. 
He is a poet withal, and daily besieges the 
heart of the cruel Dona Inez with sonnets and 
madrigals. She turns a deaf ear to his song, 
and is inexorable : — 

** Mas que no sea mas piadosa 
A dos escudos en prosa. 
No puede sero" 



igo A Tailor^ s Drawer 

VIII. 

What a contrast between this personage 
and the sallow, emaciated being who is now 
crossing the street ! It is a barefooted Car- 
melite, — a monk of an austere order, — wasted 
by midnight vigils and long penance. Absti- 
nence is written on that pale cheek, and the 
bowed head and downcast eye are in accord- 
ance with the meek profession of a mendicant 
brotherhood. 

What is this world to thee, thou man of 
penitence and prayer } What hast thou to do 
with all this busy, turbulent scene about thee, 
— with all the noise, and gayety, and splendor 
of this thronged city } Nothing. The wide 
world gives thee nothing, save thy daily crust, 
thy crucifix, thy convent-cell, thy pallet of 
straw ! Pilgrim of heaven ! thou hast no home 
on earth. Thou art journeying onward to "a 
house not made with hands " ; and, like the 
first apostles of thy faith, thou takest neither 
gold, nor silver, nor brass, nor scrip for thy 
journey. Thou hast shut thy heart to the en- 
dearments of earthly love, — thy shoulder bear, 
eth not the burden with thy fellow-man, — in 
all this vast crowd thou hast no friends, no 
hopes, no sympathies. Thou standest aloof 



A Tailor's Drawer 191 

from man, — and art thou nearer God ? I 
know not. Thy motives, thy intentions, thy 
desires are registered in heaven. I am thy 
fellow-man, — and not thy judge. 

" Who is the greater ? " says the German 
morahst ; " the wise man who Ufts himself 
above the storms of time, and from aloof looks 
down upon them, and yet takes no part there- 
in, — or he who, from the height of quiet and 
repose, throws himself boldly into the battle- 
tumult of the world ? Glorious is it, when the 
eagle through the beating tempest flies into 
the bright blue heaven upward ; but far more 
glorious, when, poising in the blue sky over 
the black storm-abyss, he plunges downward 
to his aerie on the cliff, where cower his un- 
fledged brood, and tremble." 

IX. 

Sultry grows the day, and breathless ! The 
lately crowded street is silent and deserted, — ^ 
hardly a footfall, — hardly here and there a 
solitary figure stealing along in the narrow 
strip of shade beneath the eaves ! Silent, too, 
and deserted is the Puerta del Sol ; so silent, 
that even at this distance the splashing of its 
fountain is distinctly audible, — so deserted. 



192 A Tailor's Drawer 

that not a living thing is visible there, save the 
outstretched and athletic form of a Galician 
water-carrier, who lies asleep upon the pave- 
ment in the cool shadow of the fountain ! 
There is not air enough to stir the leaves of 
the jasmine upon the balcony, or break the 
thin column of smoke that issues from the ci- 
gar of Don Diego, master of the noble Spanish 
tongue, y hoinbre de micchos dingolondaiigos. 
He sits bolt upright between the window and 
the door, with the collar of his snuff-colored 
frock thrown back upon his shoulders, and his 
toes turned out like a dancing-master, poring 
over the Diario de Madrid, to learn how high 
the thermometer rose yesterday, — what pa- 
tron saint has a festival to-day, — and at what 
hour to-morrow the "King of Spain, Jerusa- 
lem, and the Canary Islands " will take his de- 
parture for the gardens of Aranjuez. 

You have a proverb in your language, Don 
Diego, which says, — 

** Despues de comer 
Ni un sobrescrito leer " ; — 

after dinner read not even the superscription 
of a letter. I shall obey, and indulge in the 
exquisite luxury of a siesta. I confess that I 
love this after-dinner nap. If I have a gift, a 



A Tailor's Drawer 193 

vocation for anything, it is for sleeping ; and 
from my heart I can say with honest Sancho, 
" Blessed be the man that first invented sleep ! " 
In a sultry clime, too, where the noontide heat 
unmans you, and the cool starry night seems 
made for anything but slumber, I am willing 
to barter an hour or two of intense daylight 
for an hour or two of tranquil, lovely, dewy 
night ! 

Therefore, Don Diego, hasta la vista ! 



It is evening ; the day is gone ; fast gather 
and deepen the shades of twilight! In the 
words of a German allegory, *^The babbling 
day has touched the hem of night's garment, 
and, weary and still, drops asleep in her bo- 
som." 

The city awakens from its slumber. The 
convent-bells ring solemnly and slow. The 
streets are thronged again. Once more I hear 
the shrill cry, the rattling wheel, the murmur 
of the crowd. The blast of a trumpet sounds 
from the Puerta del Sol, — then the tap of a 
drum ; a mounted guard opens the way, — the 
crowd doff their hats, and the king sweeps by 
in a 'gilded coach drawn by six horses, and fol- 

9 M 



194 -^ Tailor'' s Drawer 

lowed by a long train of uncouth, antiquated 
vehicles drawn by mules. 

The living tide now sets towards the Prado, 
and the beautiful gardens of the Retiro. Beau- 
tiful are they at this magic hour ! Beautiful, 
with the almond-tree in blossom, with the 
broad green leaves of the sycamore and the 
chestnut, with the fragrance of the orange and 
the lemon, with the beauty of a thousand flow- 
ers, with the soothing calm and the dewy 
freshness of evening ! 

XI. 

I LOVE to linger on the Prado till the crowd 
is gone and the night far advanced. There 
musing and alone I sit, and listen to the lull- 
ing fall of waters in their marble fountains, 
and watch the moon as it rises over the gar- 
dens of the Retiro, brighter than a northern 
sun. The beautiful scene lies half in shadow, 
half in light, — almost a fairy-land. Occasion- 
ally the sound of a guitar, or a distant voice, 
breaks in upon my revery. Then the form of 
a monk, from the neighboring convent, sweeps 
by me like a shadow, and disappears in the 
gloom of the leafy avenues ; and far away from 
the streets of the city comes the voice of the 
watchman telling the midnight hour. 



A Tailor's Drawer 195 

Lovely art thou, O Night, beneath the skies 
of Spain ! Day, panting with heat, and laden 
with a thousand cares, toils onward like a 
beast of burden \ but Night, calm, silent, holy 
Night, is a ministering angel that cools with 
its dewy breath the toil-heated brow ; and, 
like the Roman sisterhood, stoops down to 
bathe the pilgrim's feet. How grateful is 
the starry twilight ! How grateful the gentle 
radiance of the moon ! How grateful the deli- 
cious coolness of " the omnipresent and deep- 
breathing air!'* Lovely art thou, O Night, 
beneath the skies of Spain ! 



ANCIENT SPANISH BALLADS 



I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set 
down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably. 

Winter's Talel 

HOW universal is the love of poetry ! Ev- 
ery nation has its popular songs, the 
offspring of a credulous simplicity and an un- 
schooled fancy. The peasant of the North, as 
he sits by the evening fire, sings the tradition- 
ary ballad to his children, 

"Nor wants he gleeful tales, while round 
The nut-browii bowl doth trot." 

The peasant of the South, as he lies at noon in 
the shade of the sycamore, or sits by his door 
in the evening twilight, sings his amorous lay, 
and listlessly, 

** On hollow quills of oaten straw, 
He pipeth melody." 

The muleteer of Spain carols with the early 
lark, amid the stormy mountains of his native 
land. The vintager of Sicily has his even- 
ing hymn ; the fisherman of Naples his boat 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 197 

song ; the gondolier of Venice his midnight 
serenade. The goatherd of Switzerland and 
the Tyrol, — the Carpathian boor, — the Scotch 
Highlander, — the English ploughboy, sing- 
ing as he drives his team afield, — peasant, 
— serf, — slave, — all, all have their ballads 
and traditionary songs. Music is the univer- 
sal language of mankind, — poetry their uni- 
versal pastime and delight. 

The ancient ballads of Spain hold a promi- 
nent rank in her literary history. Their num- 
ber is truly astonishing, and may well startle 
the most enthusiastic lover of popular song. 
The Romancero General* contains upwards 
of a thousand ; and though upon many of 
these may justly be bestowed the encomium 
which honest Izaak Walton pronounces upon 
the old English ballad of the Passionate Shep- 
herd, — "old-fashioned poetry, but choicely 
good," — yet, as a whole, they are, perhaps, 
more remarkable for their number than for 
their beauty. Every great historic event, 
every marvellous tradition, has its popular bal- 
lad. Don Roderick, Bernardo del Carpio, and 



* Romancero General, en que se contiene todos los Ro- 
mances que andan impresos. 4to. Madrid. 1604. 



1 98 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

the Cid Campeador are not more the heroes of 
ancient chronicle than of ancient song ; and 
the imaginary champions of Christendom, the 
twelve peers of Charlemagne, have found an 
historian in the wandering ballad-singer no 
less authentic than the good Archbishop Tur- 
pin. 

Most of these ancient ballads had their 
origin during the dominion of the Moors in 
Spain. Many of them, doubtless, are nearly 
as old as the events they celebrate ; though in 
their present form the greater part belong to 
the fourteenth century. The language in 
which they are now preserved indicates no 
higher antiquity ; but who shall say how long 
they had been handed down by tradition, ere 
they were taken from the lips of the wander- 
ing minstrel, and recorded in a more perma- 
nent form > 

The seven centuries of the Moorish sover- 
eignty in Spain are the heroic ages of her his- 
tory and her poetry. What the warrior 
achieved with his sword the minstrel pub- 
lished in his song. The character of those 
ages is seen in the character of their literature. 
History casts its shadow far into the land of 
song. Indeed, the most prominent character- 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 199 

istic of the ancient Spanish ballads is their 
warlike spirit. They shadow forth the ma- 
jestic lineaments of the warlike ages ; and 
through every line breathes a high and pecu- 
liar tone of chivalrous feeling. It is not the 
piping sound of peace, but a blast, — a loud, 
long blast from the war-horn, — 

*' A trump %vith a stern breath, 
Which is cleped the trump of death. '' 

And with this mingles the voice of lamenta- 
tion, — the requiem for the slain, with a melan- 
choly sweetness : — 

" Rio Verde, Rio Verde ! 

Many a corpse is bathed in thee, 
Both of Moors and eke of Christians, 
Slain with swords most cruelly. 

** And thy pure and crystal waters 
Dappled are with crimson gore ; 
For between the Moors and Christians 
Long has been the fight and sore. 

** Dukes and counts fell bleeding near thee, 
Lords of high renown were slain. 
Perished many a brave hidalgo 
Of the noblemen of Spain. " 

Another prominent characteristic of these 
ancient ballads is their energetic and beau- 
tiful simplicity. A great historic event is de- 



200 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

scribed in the fewest possible words ; there is 
no ornament, no artifice. The poet's intention 
was to narrate, not to embeUish. It is truly 
wonderful to observe what force, and beauty, 
and dramatic power are given to the old ro- 
mances by this single circumstance. When 
Bernardo del Carpio leads forth his valiant 
Leonese against the host of Charlemagne, he 
animates their courage by alluding to their 
battles with the Moors, and exclaims, " Shall 
the lions that have bathed their paws in Lib- 
yan gore now crouch before the Frank } " 
When he enters the palace of the treacherous 
Alfonso, to upbraid him for a broken promise, 
and the king orders him to be arrested for 
contumely, he lays his hand upon his sword 
and cries, " Let no one stir ! I am Ber- 
nardo ; and my sword is not subject even to 
kings ! " When the Count Alarcos prepares to 
put to death his own wife at the king s com- 
rnand, she submits patiently to her fate, asks 
time to say a prayer, and then exclaims, " Now 
bring me my infant boy, that I may give him 
suck, as my last farewell ! " Is there in Ho- 
mer an incident more touching, or more true 
to nature t 

The ancient Spanish ballads naturally divide 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 201 

themselves into three classes : — the Historic; 
the Romantic, and the Moorish. It must be 
confessed, however, that the Hne of demarca- 
tion between these three classes is not well 
defined ; for many of the Moorish ballads are 
historic, and many others occupy a kind of de- 
batable ground between the historic and the 
romantic. I have adopted this classification 
for the sake of its convenience, and shall now 
make a few hasty observations upon each class, 
and illustrate my remarks by specimens of the 
ballads. 

The historic ballads are those which recount 
the noble deeds of the early heroes of Spain : 
of Bernardo del Carpio, the Cid, Martin Pelaez, 
Garcia Perez de Vargas, Alonso de Aguilar, 
and many others whose names stand conspicu- 
ous in Spanish history. Indeed, these ballads 
may themselves be regarded in the light of 
historic documents ; they are portraits of long- 
departed ages, and if at times their features are 
exaggerated and colored with too bold a con- 
trast of light and shade, yet the free and spir- 
ited touches of a master's hand are recognized 
in all. They are instinct, too, with the spirit 
of Castilian pride, with* the high and dauntless 
spirit of liberty that burned so fiercely of old 



202 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

in the heart of the brave hidalgo. Take, for 
example, the ballad of the Five Farthings. 
King Alfonso the Eighth, having exhausted his 
treasury in war, wishes to lay a tax of five far- 
things upon each of the Castilian hidalgos, in 
order to defray the expenses of a journey from 
Burgos to Cuenca. This proposition of the 
king was met with disdain by the noblemen 
who had been assembled on the occasion. 

" Don Nuno, Count of Lara, 
In anger and in pride, 
Forgot all reverence for the king, 
And thus in wrath replied ; — 

** * Our noble ancestors,' quoth he, 
' Ne'er such a tribute paid ; 
Nor shall the king receive of us 
What they have once gainsaid. 

** ' The base-bom soul who deems it just 
May here with thee remain ; 
But follow me, ye cavaliers, 
Ye noblemen of Spain.' 

•* Forth followed they the noble Count, 
They marched to Glera's plain ; 
Out of three thousand gallant knights 
Did only three remain. 

•' They tied the tribute to their spears, 
They raised it in the air, 
And they sent to tell their lord the king 
That his tax was ready there. 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 203 

** * He may send and take by force/ said they, 
' This paltr)^ sum of gcii ; 
But the goodly gift of liberty 
Cannot be bought and sold.' " 

The same gallant spirit breathes through all 
the historic ballads; but, perhaps, most fer- 
vently in those which relate to Bernardo 
del Carpio. How spirit-stirring are all the 
speeches which the ballad-writers have put 
into the mouth of this valiant hero ! " Ours is 
the blood of the Goth," says he to King Al- 
fonso ; " sweet to us is liberty, and bondage 
odious ! " — " The king may give his castles to 
the Frank, but not his vassals ; for kings them- 
selves hold no dominion over the free will ! " 
He and his followers would rather die freemen 
than live slaves ! If these are the common 
watchwords of liberty at the present day, they 
were no less so among the high-souled Span- 
iai ds of the eighth century. 

One of the finest of the historic ballads is 
that which describes Bernardo's march to Ron- 
cesvalles. He salHes forth '*with three thou- 
sand Leonese and more," to protect the glory 
and freedom of his native land. From all 
sides, the peasantrv of the land flock to the 
hero's standard 



204 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

** The peasant leaves his plough afield. 
The reaper leaves his hook, 
And from his hand the shepherd-boy 
Lets fall the pastoral crook. 

*' The young set up a shout of joy, 
The old forget their years, ^ 
The feeble man grows stout of heart 
No more the craven fears. 

** All rush to Bernard's standard, 
And on liberty they call ; 
They cannot brook to wear the yoke, 
When threatened by the Gaul. 

" * Free were we bom,' 'tis thus they cry, 
' And willingly pay we 
The duty that we owe our king, 
By the divine decree. 

** * But God forbid that we obey 
The laws of foreign knaves, 
Tarnish the glory of our sires. 
And make our children slaves. 

•* ' Our hearts have not so craven grown, 
So bloodless all our veins, 
So vigorless our brawny arms, 
As to submit to chains. 

** * Has the audacious Frank, forsooth. 

Subdued these seas and lands ? 

Shall he a bloodless victory have ? 

No, not while we have hands. 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 205 

** * He shall learn that the gallant Leonese 
Can bravely fight and fall ; 
But that they know not how to yield ; 
They are Castilians all. 

*' * Was it for this the Roman power 
Of old was made to yield 
Unto Numantia's valiant hosts, 
On many a bloody field ? 

** * Shall the bold lions that have bathed 
Their paws in Libyan gore, 
Crouch basely to a feebler foe. 
And dare the strife no more ? 

" ' Let the false king sell town and tower, 
But not his vassals free ; 
For to subdue the free-bom soul 
No royal power hath he ! ' " 

These short specimens will suffice to show 
the spirit of the old heroic ballads of Spain ; 
the Romances del Cid, and those that rehearse 
the gallant achievements of many other cham- 
pions, brave and stalwart knights of old, I must 
leave unnoticed, and pass to another field of 
chivalry and song. 

The next class of the ancient Spanish bal- 
lads is the Romantic, including those which 
relate to the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne 
and other imaginary heroes of the days of 
chivalry. There is an exaggeration in the 



2o6 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

prowess of these heroes of romance which is in 
accordance with the warmth of a Spanish im- 
agination ; and the ballads which celebrate 
their achievements still go from mouth to 
mouth among the peasantry of Spain, and are 
hawked about the streets by the blind ballad- 
monger. 

Among the romantic ballads, those of the 
Twelve Peers stand pre-eminent ; not so much 
for their poetic merit as for the fame of their 
heroes. In them are sung the valiant knights 
whose history is written more at large in the 
prose romances of chivalry, — Orlando, and 
Oliver, and Montesinos, and Durandarte, and 
the Marques de Mantua, and the other pala- 
dins, " que eit una mesa comia^i pan!' These 
ballads are of different length and various 
degrees of merit. Of some a few lines only 
remain ; they are evidently fragments of larger 
works ; while others, on the contrary, aspire to 
the length and dignity of epic poems; — wit- 
ness the ballads of the Conde de Irlos and the 
Marques de Mantua, each of which consists of 
nearly a thousand long and sonorous lines. 

Among these ballads of the Twelve Peers 
there are many of great beauty ; others possess 
little merit, and are wanting in vigor and con- 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 207 

ciseness. From the structure of the versifica- 
tion, I should rank them among the oldest of 
the Spanish ballads. They are all monorhyth- 
mic. with full consonant rhymes. 

To the romantic ballads belong also a great 
number which recount the deeds of less cele- 
brated heroes; but among them all none is 
so curious as that of Virgil. Like the old 
French romance-writers of the Middle Ages, 
the early Spanish poets introduce the Mantuan 
bard as a knight of chivalry. The ballad in- 
forms us that a certain king kept him impris- 
oned seven years, for what old Brantome 
would call outrecuy dance with a certain Dona 
Isabel. But being at mass on Sunday, the 
recollection of Virgil comes suddenly into his 
mind, when he ought to be attending to the 
priest ; and, turning to his knights, he asks 
them what has become of Virgil. One of 
them replies, " Your Highness has him impris- 
oned in your dungeons"; to which the king 
makes answer with the greatest coolness, by 
telling them that the dinner is waiting, and 
that after they have dined they will pay Virgil 
a visit in his prison. Then up and spake the 
queen like a true heroine ; quoth she, " I will 
not dine without him " ; and straightway they 



2o8 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

all repaired to the prison, where they find the 
incarcerated knight engaged in the pleasant 
pastime of combing his hair and arranging his 
beard. He tells the king very coolly that on 
that very day he has been a prisoner seven 
years ; to this the king replies, " Hush, hush, 
Virgil ; it takes three more to make ten." — 
" Sire," says Virgil, with the same philosophi- 
cal composure, "if your Highness so ordains, I 
will pass my whole life here." — " As a reward 
for your patience, you shall dine with me to- 
day," says the king. " My coat is torn," says 
Virgil ; " I am not in trim to make a leg." — 
But this difficulty is removed by the promise 
of a new suit from the king ; and they go to 
dinner. Virgil delights both knights and dam- 
sels, but most of all Dona Isabel. The arch- 
bishop is called in ; they are married forth- 
with, and the ballad closes like a scene in 
some old play : — " He takes her by the hand, 
and leads her to the garden." 

Such is this curious ballad. 

I now turn to one of the most beautiful of 
these ancient Spanish poems ; — it is the Ro- 
mance del Conde Alarcos ; a ballad full of in- 
terest and of touching pathos. The story is 
briefly this. The Count Alarcos. after being 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 209 

secretly betrothed to the Infanta Solisa, for- 
sakes her and weds another lady. Many 
years afterward, the princess, sitting alone, as 
she was wont, and bemoaning her forsaken 
lot, resolves to tell the cause of her secret sor- 
row to the king her father ; and, after confess- 
ing her 4 clandestine love f^r Count Alarcos, 
demands the death of the Countess, to heal 
her wounded honor. Her story awakens the 
wrath of the king ; he acknowledges the just- 
ness of her demand, seeks an interview with 
the Count, and sets the case before him in so 
strong a light, that finally he wrings from him 
a promise to put his wife to death with his 
own hand. The Count returns homeward a 
grief-stricken man, weeping the sad destiny of 
his wife, and saying within himself, " How 
shall I look upon her smile of joy, when she 
comes forth to meet me } " The Countess wel- 
comes his return with affectionate tenderness ; 
but he is heavy at heart and disconsolate. 
He sits down to supper with his children 
around him, but the food is untasted ; he hides 
his face in his hands, and weeps. At length 
they retire to their chamber. In the language 
of Mr. Lockharf s translation, — 

N 



2IO Ancient Spanish Ballads 

" They came together to the bower, where they were used to 

rest, — 
None with them but the little babe that was upon the breast : 
The Count had barred the chamber-doors, — they ne'er were 

barred till then : 

* Unhappy lady,' he began, * and I most lost of men ! * 

** * Now speak not so, my noble lord, my husband, and my life ! 
Unhappy never can she be that is Alarcos' wife ! ' 

* Alas ! unhappy lady, 't is but little that you know ; 

For in that very word you 've said is gathered all your woe. 

'* * Long since I loved a lady, — long since I oaths did plight 
To be that lady's husband, to love her day and night ; 
Her father is our lord the king, — to him the thing is 

known ; 
And now — that I the news should bring ! — she claims me 

for her own. 

•* ' Alas ! my love, alas ! my life, the right is on their side ; 
Ere I had seen your face, sweet wife, she was betrothed my 

bride ; 
But — O, that I should speak the word ! — since in her 

place you lie. 
It is the bidding of our lord that you this night must die. * 

** * Are these the wages of my love, so lowly and so leal ? 
O, kill me not, thou noble Count, when at thy foot I kneel ! 
But send me to my father's house, where once I dwelt in 

glee; 
There will I live a lone, chaste life, and rear my children 

three.' 

•* • It may not be, — mine oath is' strong, — ere dawn of day 
you die.' 
*0, well 't is seen how all alone upon the earth am 1 1 — 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 211 

My father is an old, frail man ; my mother 's in her grave ; 
And dead is stout Don Garci, — alas ! my brother brave 1 

* ' 'T was at this coward king's command they slew my brother 

dear, 

And now I 'm helpless in the land ! — It is not death I fear, 

But loth, loth am I to depart, and leave my children so ; — 

Now let me lay them to my heart, and kiss them, ere I go. ' 

" * Kiss him that lies upon thy breast, — the rest thou mayst 
not see.' 

* I fain would say an Ave.' ' Then say it speedily/ 

She knelt her down upon her knee, — ' O Lord, behold my 

case ! 
Judge not my deeds, but look on me in pity and great grace I ' 

"When she had made her orison, up from her knees she 
rose : — 

* Be kind, Alarcos, to our babes, and pray for my repose ; 
And now give me my boy once more, upon my breast to hold, 
That he may drink one farewell drink before my l^reast be 

cold.' 

" * Why would you waken the poor child ? you see he is 

asleep ; 
Prepare, dear wife, there is no time, the dawn begins to 

peep.' 
' Now, hear me, Count Alarcos ! I give thee pardon free : 
I pardon thee for tlie love's sake wherewith I've loved 

thee ; — 

** * But they have not my pardon, — the king and his proud 

daughter ; 
The curse of God be on them, for this unchristian slaughter. 
I charge them with my dymg breath, ere thirty days be gone, 
To meet me in the realm of death, and at God's awful 

throne ! ' " 



212 Ancient Spa^iish Ballads 

The Count then strangles her with a scarf, 
and the ballad concludes with the fulfilment of 
the dying lady's prayer, in the death of the 
king and the Infanta within twenty days of 
her own. 

Few, I think, will be disposed to question 
the beauty of this ancient ballad, though a 
refined and cultivated taste may revolt from 
the seemingly unnatural incident upon which 
it is founded. It must be recollected that this 
is a scene taken from a barbarous age, when 
the life of even the most cherished and beloved 
was held of little value in comparison with a 
chivalrous but false and exaggerated point of 
honor. It must be borne in mind also, that, 
notwithstanding the boasted liberty of the Cas- 
tilian hidalgos, and their frequent rebellions 
against the crown, a deep reverence for the 
divine right of kings, and a consequent dispo- 
sition to obey the mandates of the throne, at 
almost any sacrifice, has always been one of the 
prominent traits of the Spanish character 
When taken in connection with these circum- 
stances, the story of this old ballad ceases to 
be so grossly improbable as it seems at first 
sight ; and, indeed, becomes an illustration of 
national character. In all probability, the 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 213 

story of the Conde Alarcos had some foun- 
dation in fact * 

The third class of the ancient Spanish bal- 
lads is the Moorish. Here we enter a new 
world, more gorgeous and more dazzling than 
that of Gothic chronicle and tradition. The 
stern spirits of Bernardo, the Cid, and Mudarra 
have passed away ; the mail-clad forms of Gua- 
rinos, Orlando, and Durandarte are not here : 
the scene is changed ; it is the bridal of An- 
dalla ; the bull-fight of Ganzul. The sunshine 
of Andalusia glances upon the marble halls 
of Granada, and green are the banks of the 
Xenil and the Darro. A band of Moorish 
knights gayly arrayed in gambesons of crimson 
silk, with scarfs of blue and jewelled tahalies, 
sweep like the wind through the square of Vi- 
varambla. They ride to the Tournament of 
Reeds ; the Moorish maiden leans from the 
balcony ; bright eyes glisten from many a lat- 
tice; and the victorious knight receives the 
prize of valor from the hand of her whose 

* This exaggerated reverence for the person and prerogatives 
of the king has furnished the groundwork of two of the best 
dramas in the Spanish language ; La Estrella de Sevilla^ by 
Lope de Vega, and Del Rey abajo Nznguno, by Francisco de 
Rojas. 



214 Ancient Spanish Ballads » 

beauty is like the star-lit night. These are 
the Xarifas, the Celindas, and Lindaraxas, — 
the Andallas, Ganzules, and Abenzaydes of 
Moorish song. 

Then comes the sound of the silver clarion, 
and the roll of the Moorish atabal, down from 
the snowy pass of the Sierra Nevada and 
across the gardens of the Vega. Alhama has 
fallen ! woe is me, Alhama ! The Christian is 
at the gates of Granada ; the banner of the 
cross floats from the towers of the Alhambra ! 
And these, too, are themes for the minstrel, — 
themes sung alike by Moor and Spaniard. 

Among the Moorish ballads are included 
not only those which were originally composed 
in Arabic, but all that relate to the manners, 
customs, and history of the Moors in Spain. 
In most of them the influence of an Oriental 
taste is clearly visible ; their spirit is more 
refined and effeminate than that of the historic 
and romantic ballads, in which no trace of 
such an influence is perceptible. The spirit 
of the Cid is stern, unbending, steel-clad ; 
his hand grasps his sword Tizona ; his hed 
wounds the flank of his steed Babieca ; — 

** La mano aprieta a Tizona, 
Y el talon fiere a Babieca.*' 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 215 

But the spirit of Arbolan the Moor, though 
resolute in camps, is effeminate in courts ; he 
is a diamond among scymitars, yet graceful in 
the dance ; — 

"Diamante entre los alfanges, 
Gracioso en baylar las zambras." 

The ancient ballads are stamped with the char- 
acter of their heroes. Abundant illustrations 
of this could be given, but it is not necessary. 

Among the most spirited of the Moorish 
ballads are those which are interwoven in the 
History of the Civil Wars of Granada. The 
following, entitled "A very mournful Ballad 
on the Siege and Conquest of Alhama,'* is 
very beautiful ; and such was the effect it pro- 
duced upon the Moors, that it was forbidden, 
on pain of death, to sing it within the walls of 
Granada. The translation, which is executed 
with great skill and fidelity, is from the pen of 
Lord Byron. 

**The Moorish king rides up and down. 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
Woe is me, Alhama I 

** Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama's city fell^ 



2i6 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

*' He quits his mule, and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course f 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** When the Alhambra's walls he gained 
On the moment he ordained 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar, 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain, — 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

"Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recalled them therej 
One by one, and two by two. 
To a mighty squadron grew. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before : 
* Wherefore call on us, O king ? 
What may mean this gathering ? ' 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

C4 < Friends ! ye have, alas ! to knov 
Of a most disastrous blow, — 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 21 J 

That the Christians, stem and bold, 
Have obtained Alhama's hold.' 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
With his beard so white to see 2 
' Good king, thou art justly served ; 
Good king, this thou hast deserved. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

*' ' By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the chivalry. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** * And for this, O king ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement ; 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm. 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

*' ' He who holds no laws in awe, 
He m.ust perish by the law ; 
And Granada must be won, 
And thyself with her undone.' 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

**Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes; 
The monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answered, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

** * There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings ! * 

lO 



2i8 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish king, and doomed him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama ! " 

Such are the ancient ballads of Spain ; 
poems which, like the Gothic cathedrals of the 
Middle Ages, have outlived the names of their 
builders. They are the handiwork of wander- 
ing, homeless minstrels, who for their daily 
bread thus " built the lofty rhyme "; and whose 
names, like their dust and ashes, have long, 
long been wrapped in a shroud. " These poets," 
says an anonymous writer, "have left behind 
them no trace to which the imagination can 
attach itself; they have *died and made no 
sign.' We pass from the infancy of Spanish 
poetry to the age of Charles, through a long 
vista of monuments without inscriptions, as 
the traveller approaches the noise and bustle 
of modern Rome through the lines of silent 
and unknown tombs that border the Appian 
Way." 

Before closing this essay, I must allude to 
the unfavorable opinion which the learned Dr. 
Southey has expressed concerning the merit 
of these old Spanish ballads. In his preface 
to the Chronicle of the Cid, he says: "The 
heroic ballads of the Spaniards have been 



Ancient Spanish Ballads 219 

overrated in this country ; they are infinitely 
and every way inferior to our own. There are 
some spirited ones in the Guerras Civiles de 
Granada, from which the rest have been esti- 
mated ; but, excepting these, I know none of 
any value among the many hundreds which I 
have perused." On this field I am willing to 
do battle, though it be with a veteran knight 
who bears enchanted arms, and whose sword, 
like that of Martin Antolinez, " illumines all 
the field." That the old Spanish ballads may 
have been overrated, and that as a whole they 
are inferior to the English, I concede; that 
many of the hundred ballads of the Cid are 
wanting in interest, and that many of those of 
the Twelve Peers of France are languid, and 
drawn out beyond the patience of the most 
patient reader, I concede ; I willingly confess, 
also, that among them all I have found none 
that can rival in graphic power the short but 
wonderful ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, where- 
in the mariner sees " the new moon with the 
old moon in her arm," or the more modern one 
of the Battle of Agincourt, by Michael Dray- 
ton, beginning, — 

** Fair stood the wind for France, 
As we our sails advance, 



220 Ancient Spanish Ballads 

Nor now to prove our chance 

Longer will tarry ; 
But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train, 

Landed King Harry." 

All this I readily concede : but that the old 
Spanish ballads are infinitely and every way 
inferior to the English, and that among them 
all there are none of any value, save a few 
which celebrate the civil wars of Granada, — 
this I deny. The March of Bernardo del Car- 
pio is hardly inferior to Chevy Chase ; and the 
ballad of the Conde Alarcos, in simplicity and 
pathos, has hardly a peer in all English bal- 
ladry, — it is superior to Edem o' Gordon. 

But a truce to criticism. Already, methinks, 
I hear the voice of a drowsy and prosaic her- 
ald proclaiming, in the language of Don Quix- 
ote to the puppet-player, " Make an end. Mas- 
ter Peter, for it grows toward supper-time, and 
I have some symptoms of hunger upon me." 



THE VILLAGE OF EL PARDILLO 

When the lawyer is swallowed up with business, and the statesman is 
preventing or contriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds 
sing, and possess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver 
streams we now see glide so quietly by us. 

IzAAK Walton. 

IN that delicious season when the coy and 
capricious maidenhood of spring is swelKng 
into the warmer, riper, and more voluptuous 
womanhood of summer, I left Madrid for the 
village of El Pardillo. I had already seen 
enough of the villages of the North of Spain 
to know that for the most part they have few 
charms to entice one from the city ; but I was 
curious to see the peasantry of the land in 
their native homes, — to see how far the shep- 
herds of Castile resemble those who sigh and 
sing in the pastoral romances of Montemayor 
and Gaspar Gil Polo. 

I love the city and its busy hum ; I love that 
glad excitement of the crowd which makes the 
pulse beat quick, the freedom from restraint, 
the absence of those curious eyes and idle 



22 2 The Village of El Pardillo 

tongues which persecute one in villages and 
provincial towns. I love the country, too, in 
its season ; and there is no scene over which 
my eye roves with more delight than the face 
of a summer landscape dimpled with soft sun- 
ny hollows, and smiling in all the freshness 
and luxuriance of June. There is no book in 
which I read sweeter lessons of virtue, or find 
the beauty of a quiet life more legibly record- 
ed. My heart drinks in the tranquillity of the 
scene ; and I never hear the sweet warble of a 
bird from its native wood, without a silent wish 
that such a cheerful voice and peaceful shade 
were mine. There is a beautiful moral feeling 
connected with everything in rural life, which 
is not dreamed of in the philosophy of the city. 
The voice of the brook and the language of 
the winds and woods are no poetic fiction. 
What an impressive lesson is there in the 
opening bud of spring ! what an eloquent 
homily in the fall of the autumnal leaf ! How 
well does the song of a passing bird represent 
the glad but transitory days of youth ! and in 
the hollow tree and hooting owl what a melan- 
choly image of the decay and imbecility of old 
age ! In the beautiful language of an English 
poet, — 



The Village of El Pardillo 223 

•* Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers. 
Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, 
Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
From loneliest nook. 

** 'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth. 
And tolls its perfume on the passing air. 
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer ; 

**'Not to the domes where crumbling arch and columil 
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
But to that fane most catholic and solemn 
Which God hath planned ; 

"To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 

Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, — 
Its choir the ^vinds and waves, its organ thunder, 
Its dome the sky. 

** There, amid solitude and shade, I wander 
Through the green aisles, and, stretched upon the sod. 
Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
The ways of God."' 

But the traveller who journeys through the 
northern provinces of Spain will look in vain 
for the charms of rural scenery in the villages 
he passes. Instead of trim cottages, and gar- 
dens, and the grateful shade of trees, he will 
see a cluster of stone hovels roofed with red 
tiles and basking in the hot sun, without a sin- 
gle tree to lend him shade or shelter ; and in- 



224 The Village of El Pardillo 

stead of green meadows and woodlands vocal 
with the song of birds, he will find bleak and 
rugged mountains, and vast extended plains, 
that stretch away beyond his ken. 

It was my good fortune, however, to find, not 
many leagues from the metropolis, a village 
which could boast the shadow of a few trees. 
El Pardillo is situated on the southern slope of 
the Guadarrama Mountains, just where the 
last broken spurs of the sierra stretch forward 
into the vast table-land of New Castile. The 
village itself, like most other Castilian villages, 
is only a cluster of weather-stained and dilapi- 
dated houses, huddled together without beauty 
or regularity ; but the scenery around it is 
picturesque, — a mingling of hill and dale, 
sprinkled with patches of cultivated land and 
clumps of forest-trees ; and in the background 
the blue, vapory outline of the Guadarrama 
Mountains melting into the sky. 

In this quiet place I sojourned for a season, 
accompanied by the publican Don Valentin 
and his fair daughter Florencia. We took up 
our abode in the cottage of a peasant named 
Lucas, an honest tiller of the soil, simple and 
good-natured ; or, in the more emphatic lan- 
guage of Don Valentin, " un hombre miiy infe- 



The Village of El Pardillo 225 

liz, y sin malicia ningunay Not so his wife 
Matina ; she was a Tartar, and so mettlesome 
withal, that poor Lucas skulked doggedly 
about his own premises, with his head down 
and his tail between his legs. 

In this little village my occupations were 
few and simple. My morning s walk was to 
the Cross of Espalmado, a large wooden cruci- 
fix in the fields ; the day was passed with 
books, or with any idle companion I was 
lucky enough to catch by the button, and 
bribe with a cigar into a long story, or a little 
village gossip ; and I whiled away the evening 
in peeping round among the cottagers, study- 
ing the beautiful landscape that spread before 
me, and watching the occasional gathering of 
a storm about the blue peaks of the Guadar- 
rama Mountains. My favorite haunt was a 
secluded spot in a little woodland valley, 
through which a crystal brook ran brawling 
along its pebbly channel. There, stretched in 
the shadow of a tree, I often passed the hours 
of noontide heat, now reading the magic num- 
bers of Garcilaso, and anon listening to the 
song of the nightingale overhead ; or watch- 
ing the toil of a patient ant, as he rolled his 
stone, like Sisyphus, up hill, or the flight of a 
10* o 



226 The Village of El Pardillo 

bee darting from flower to flower, and " hiding 
his murmurs in the rose." 

Blame me not, thou studious moralist, — 
blame me not unheard for this idle dreaming ; 
such moments are not wholly thrown away. 
In the language of Goethe, " I lie down in the 
grass near a falling brook, and close to the 
earth a thousand varieties of grasses become 
perceptible. When I listen to the hum of the 
little world between the stubble, and see the 
countless indescribable forms of insects, I feel 
the presence of the Almighty who has created 
us, — the breath of the All-benevolent who 
supports us in perpetual enjoyment." 

The village church, too, was a spot around 
which I occasionally lingered of an evening, 
when in pensive or melancholy mood. And 
here, gentle reader, thy imagination will 
straightway conjure up a scene of ideal beau- 
ty, — a village church with decent white- 
washed walls, and modest spire just peeping 
forth from a clump of trees ! No ; I will not 
deceive thee ; — the church of El Pardillo re- 
sembles not this picture of thy well-tutored 
fancy. It is a gloomy little edifice, standing 
upon the outskirts of the village, and built ol 
dark and unhewn stone, with a spire like a su- 



The Village of El Pai^'dillo 227 

gar-loaf. There is no grass-plot in front, but a 
little esplanade beaten hard by the footsteps of 
the church-going peasantry. The tombstone 
of one of the patriarchs of the village serves as 
a doorstep, and a single solitary tree throws its 
friendly shade upon the portals of the little 
sanctuary. 

One evening, as I loitered around this spot, 
the sound of an organ and the chant of youth- 
ful voices from within struck my ear ; the 
church door was ajar, and I entered. There 
stood .the priest, surrounded by a group o£ 
children, who were singing a hymn to the 
Virgin : — 

"Ave, Regina coelorum, 
Ave, Domina angelorum. " 

There is something exceedingly thrilling in 
the voices of children singing. Though their 
music be unskilful, yet it finds its way to the 
heart with wonderful celerity. Voices of cher- 
ubs are they, for they breathe of paradise ; 
clear, liquid tones, that flow from pure lips and 
innocent hearts, like the sweetest notes of a 
flute, or the falling of water from a fountain ! 
When the chant was finished, the priest 
opened ^ little book which he held in his 
hand, and began, with a voice as solemn as a 



228 The Village of El Pardillo 

funeral bell, to question this class of roguish 
catechumens, whom he was initiating into the 
mysterious doctrines of the mother church. 
Some of the questions and answers were so 
curious that I cannot refrain from repeating 
them here ; and should any one doubt their 
authenticity, he will find them in the Spanish 
catechisms. 

" In what consists the mystery of the Holy 
Trinity?'* 

" In one God, who is three persons ; and 
three persons, who are but one God." . 

" But tell me, — three human persons, are 
they not three men ? " 

" Yes, father." 

"Then why are not three divine persons 
three Gods } " 

" Because three human persons have three 
human natures ; but the three divine persons 
have only one divine nature." 

" Can you explain this by an example ? " 

" Yes, father ; as a tree which has three 
branches is still but one tree, since all the 
three branches spring from one trunk, so the 
three divine persons are but one God, because 
they all have the same divine nature." 

"Where were these three divine persons 



The Village of El Pardillo 229 

before the heavens and the earth were cre- 
ated?" 

" In themselves." 

" Which of them was made man ? " 
" The Son." 

" And after the Son was made man, was he 
still God .? " 

" Yes, father ; for in becoming man he did 

not cease to be God, any more than a man 

when he becomes a monk ceases to be a man." 

" How was the Son of God made flesh } " 

" He was born of the most holy Virgin Mary." 

" And can we still call her a virgin } " 

" Yes, father ; for as a ray of the sun may pass 

through a pane of glass, and the glass remain 

unbroken, so the Virgin Mary, after the birth of 

her son, was a pure and holy virgin as before." * 

* This illustration was also made use of during the dark 
ages. Pierre de Corbiac, a Troubadour of the thirteenth 
century, thus introduces it in a poem entitled " Prayer to the 
Virgin": — 

** Domna, verges pur' e fina 
Ans que fos T enfantamens, 
Et apres tot eissamens, 
De vos trais sa cam humana 
Jhesu-Christ ncstre salvaire ; 
Si com ses trencamens faire 
Intra'l bel rais quan solelha 
Per la fenestra veirina." 



230 The Village of El Pardillo 

" Who died to save and redeem us ? " 

" The Son of God : as man, and not as God * 

"How could he suffer and die as man only, 
being both God and man, and yet but one per- 
son ? " 

" As in a heated bar of iron upon which wa- 
ter is thrown, the heat only is affected and not 
the iron, so the Son of God suffered in his 
human nature and not in his divine." 

"And when the spirit was separated from 
his most precious body, whither did the spirit 
go ? " 

" To limbo, to glorify the souls of the holy 
fathers." 

"And the body.?" 

" It was carried to the grave." 

"Did the divinity remain united with the 
spirit or with the body.?" 

"With both. As a soldier, when he un- 
sheathes his sword, remains united both with 
the sword and the sheath, though they are sep- 
arated from each other, so did the divinity re- 
main united both with the spirit and the body 
of Christ, though the spirit was separated and 
removed from the body." 

I did not quarrel with the priest for having 
been born and educated in a different faith 



The Village of El Pardillo 231 

from mine ; but as I left the church and saun- 
tered slowly homeward, I could not help asking 
myself, in a whisper, " Why perplex the spirit 
of a child with these metaphysical subtilties, 
these dark, mysterious speculations, which man 
in all his pride of intellect cannot fathom or ex- 
plain ? " 

I must not forget, in this place, to make 
honorable mention of the little great men of 
El Pardillo. And first in order comes the 
priest. He was a short, portly man, serious in 
manner, and of grave and reverend presence ; 
though at the same time there was a dash of 
the jolly-fat-friar about him ; and on hearing a 
good joke or a sly innuendo, a smile would 
gleam in his eye, and play over his round face, 
like the light of a glowworm. His house- 
keeper was a brisk, smiling little woman, on 
the shady side of thirty, and a cousin of his 
to boot. Whenever she was mentioned, Don 
Valentin looked wise, as if this cousinship 
were apocryphal; but he said nothing, — not 
he ; what right had he to be peeping into 
other people's business, when he had only one 
eye to look after his own withal } Next in 
rank to the Dominie was the Alcalde, justice 
of the peace and quorum ; a most potent, 



232 The Village of El Pardillo 

grave, and reverend personage, with a long 
beak of a nose, and a pouch under his chin, 
like a pelican. He was a man of few words, 
but great in authority ; and his importance 
was vastly increased in the village by a pair of 
double-barrelled spectacles, so contrived, that, 
when bent over his desk and deeply buried in 
his musty papers, he could look up and see 
what was goi.^g on around him without mov- 
ing his head, whereby he got the reputation of 
seeing twice as much as other people. There 
was the village surgeon, too, a tall man with a 
varnished hat and a starved dog ; he had stud- 
ied at the University of Salamanca, and was 
pompous and pedantic, ever and anon quoting 
some threadbare maxim from the Greek phi- 
losophers, and embellishing it with a commen- 
tary of his own. Then there was the gray- 
headed Sacristan, who rang the church-bell, 
played on the organ, and was learned in tomb- 
stone lore ; a Politician, who talked me to death 
about taxes, liberty, and the days of the con- 
stitution ; and a Notary Public, a poor man 
with a large family, who would make a paper 
cigar last half an hour, and who kept up his 
respectability in the village by keeping a 
horse. 



The Village of El Pardillo 233 

Beneath the protecting shade of these great 
men full many an inhabitant of El Pardillo 
was born and buried. The village continued 
to flourish, a quiet, happy place, though all 
unknown to fame. The inhabitants were 
orderly and industrious, went regularly to mass 
and confession, kept every saint's day in the 
calendar and devoutly hung Judas once a year 
in effigy. On Sundays and all other holidays, 
when mass was over, the time was devoted 
to sports and recreation ; and the day passed 
o^ in social visiting, and athletic exercises, 
such as running, leaping, wrestling, pitching 
quoits, and heaving the bar. When evening 
came, the merry sound of the guitar summoned 
to the dance ; then every nook and alley 
poured forth its youthful company, — light of 
heart and heel, and decked out in all the holi- 
day finery of flowers, and ribbons, and crimson 
sashes. A group gathered before the cottage- 
door ; the signal was given, and away whirled 
the merry dancers to the wild music of voice 
and guitar, and the measured beat of castanet 
and tambourine. 

I love these rural dances, — from my heart I 
love them. This world, at best, is so full of 
care and sorrow, — the life of a poor man is so 



234 T^^^ Village of El Pardillo 

stained with the sweat of his brow, — there is 
so much toil, and struggling, and anguish, and 
disappointment here below, that I gaze with 
delight on a scene where all these are laid 
aside and forgotten, and the heart of the toil- 
worn peasant seems to throw off its load, and 
to leap to the sound of music, when merrily, 

*' beneath soft eve's consenting star, 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet." 

Not many miles from the village of El Par- 
dillo stands the ruined castle of Villafranca, an 
ancient stronghold of the Moors of the fif- 
teejith century. It is built upon the summit 
of a hill, of easy ascent upon one side, but pre- 
cipitous and inaccessible on the other. The 
front presents a large, square tower, constitut- 
ing the main part of the castle ; on one side of 
which an arched gateway leads to a spacious 
court-yard within, surrounded by battlements. 
The corner towers are circular, with beetling 
turrets ; and here and there, apart from the 
main body of the castle, stand several circular 
basements, whose towers have fallen and moul- 
dered into dust. From the balcony in the 
square tower, the eye embraces the level land- 
scape for leagues and leagues around ; and 
beneath, in the depth of the valley, lies a beau- 



The Village of El Pardillo 235 

tiful grove, alive with the song of the nightin- 
gale. The whole castle is in ruin, and occu- 
pied only as a hunting-lodge, being inhabited 
by a solitary tenant, who has charge of the 
adjacent domain. 

One holiday, when mass was said and the 
whole village was let loose to play, we made a 
pilgrimage to the ruins of this old Moorish al- 
cazar. Our cavalcade was as motley as that of 
old, — the pilgrims " that toward Canterbury 
wolden ride " ; for we had the priest, and the 
doctor of physic, and the man of laws, and a 
wife of Bath, and many more whom I must 
leave unsung. Merrily flew the hours and fast ; 
and sitting after dinnei in the gloomy hall of 
that old castle, many a tale was told, and many 
a legend and tradition of the past conjured up 
to satisfy the curiosity of the present. 

Most of these tales were about the Moors 
who built the castle, and the treasures they 
had buried beneath it. Then the priest told 
the story of a lawyer who sold himself to the 
devil for a pot of money, and was burnt by the 
Holy Inquisition therefor. In his confession, 
he told how he had learned from a Jew the se- 
cret of raising the devil ; how he went to the 
castle at midnight with a book which the Jew 



236 The Village of El Pardillo 

gave him, and, to make the charm sure, car- 
ried with him a loadstone, six nails from the 
coffin of a child of three years, six tapers of 
rosewax, made by a child of four years, the 
skin and blood of a young kid, an iron fork, 
with which the kid had been killed, a few hazel- 
rods, a flask of high-proof brandy, and some 
lignum-vitae charcoal to make a fire. When 
he read in the book, the devil appeared in the 
shape of a man dressed in flesh-colored clothes, 
with long nails, and large fiery eyes, and he 
signed an agreement with him written in 
blood, promising never to go to mass, and to 
give him his soul at the end of eight years ; 
in return for this, he was to have a million of 
dollars in good money, which the devil was to 
bring to him the next night ; but when the 
next night came, and the lawyer had conjured 
from his book, instead of the devil, there ap- 
peared — who do you think ? — the alcalde 
with half the village at his heels, and the poor 
lawyer was handed over to the Inquisition, and 
burnt for dealing in the black art. 

I intended to repeat here some of the many 
tales that were told ; but, upon reflection, they 
seem too frivolous, and must therefore give 
place to a more serious theme. 



THE DEVOTIONAL POETRY OF 
SPAIN 



Heaven's dove, when highest he flies. 
Flies with thy heavenly wings. 

Crashaw, 



THERE is hardly a chapter in literary his- 
tory more strongly marked with the 
peculiarities of national character than that 
which contains the moral and devotional 
poetry of Spain. It would naturally be ex- 
pected that in this department of literature all 
the fervency and depth of national feeling 
would be exhibited. But still, as the spirit of 
morality and devotion is the same, wherever it 
exists, — as the enthusiasm of virtue and relig- 
ion is everywhere essentially the same feeling, 
though modified in its degree and in its action 
by a variety of physical causes and local cir- 
cumstances, — and as the subject of the didac- 
tic verse and the spiritual canticle cannot be 
materially changed by the change of nation 
and climate, it might at the first glance seem 
quite as natural to expect that the moral and 



238 The Devotional Poetry of Spain^ 

devotional poetry of Christian countries would 
never be very strongly marked with national 
peculiarities. In other words, we should ex- 
pect it to correspond to the warmth or cold- 
ness of national feeling, for it is the external 
and visible expression of this feeling ; but not 
to the distinctions of national character, be- 
cause, its nature and object being everywhere 
the same, these distinctions become swallowed 
up in one universal Christian character. 

In moral poetry this is doubtless true. The 
great principles of Christian morality being 
eternal and invariable, the verse which embod- 
ies and represents them must, from this very 
circumstance, be the same in its spirit through 
all Christian lands. The same, however, is 
not necessarily true of devotional or religious 
poetry. There, the language of poetry is 
something more than the visible image of a 
devotional spirit It is also an expression of 
religious faith ; shadowing forth, with greater 
or less distinctness, its various creeds and doc- 
trines. As these are different in different na- 
tions, the spirit that breathes in religious song, 
and the letter that gives utterance to the doc- 
trine of faith, will not be universally the same. 
Thus, Catholic nations sing the praises of the 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 2 39 

Virgin Mary in language in which nations of 
the Protestant faith do not unite ; and among 
Protestants themselves, the difference of inter- 
pretations, and the consequent belief or disbe* 
lief of certain doctrines, give a various spirit 
and expression to religious poetry. And yet, 
in all, the devotional feeling, the heavenward 
volition, is the same. 

As far, then, as peculiarities of religious faith 
exercise an influence upon intellectual habits, 
and thus become a part of national character, 
so far will the devotional or religious poetry of 
a country exhibit the characteristic peculiari- 
ties resulting from this influence of faith, and 
its assimilation with the national mind. Now 
Spain is by pre-eminence the Catholic land of 
Christendom. Most of her historic recollec- 
tions are more or less intimately associated 
with the triumphs of the Christian faith ; and 
many of her warriors — of her best and brav- 
est — were martyrs in the holy cause, per- 
ishing in that war of centuries which was car- 
ried on within her own territories between the 
crescent of Mahomet and the cross of Christ. 
Indeed, the whole tissue of her history is inter- 
woven with miraculous traditions. The inter- 
vention of her patron saint has saved her hon- 



240 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

or in more than one dangerous pass ; and the 
war-shout of " Santiago, y cierra Espana ! " has 
worked like a charm upon the wavering spirit 
of the soldier. A reliance on the guardian 
ministry of the saints pervades the w^ole peo- 
ple, and devotional offerings for signal preser- 
vation in times of danger and distress cover the 
consecrated walls of churches. An enthusi- 
asm of religious feeling, and of external ritual 
observances, prevails throughout the land. 
But more particularly is the name of the Vir- 
gin honored and adored. Ave Maria is the 
salutation of peace at the friendly threshold, 
and the God-speed to the wayfarer. It is the 
evening orison, when the toils of day are 
done ; and at midnight it echoes along the sol- 
itary streets in the voice of the watchman's cry. 
These and similar peculiarities of religious 
faith are breathing and moving through a 
large portion of the devotional poetry of 
Spain. It is not only instinct with religious 
feeling, but incorporated with "the substance 
of things not seen." Not only are the poet's 
lips touched with a coal from the altar, but his 
spirit is folded in the cloud of incense that 
rises before the shrines of the Virgin Mother, 
and the glorious company of the saints and 



The D.evotional Poetry of Spain 241 

martyrs. His soul is not wholly swallowed up 
in the contemplation of the sublime attributes 
of the Eternal Mind ; but, with its lamp 
trimmed and burning, it goeth out to meet the 
bridegroom, as if he were coming in a bodily 
presence. 

The history of the devotional poetry of 
Spain commences with the legendary lore of 
Maestro Gonzalo de Berceo, a secular priest, 
whose life was passed in the cloisters of a Ben- 
edictine convent, and amid the shadows of the 
thirteenth century. The name of Berceo 
stands foremost on the catalogue of Spanish 
poets, for the author of the poem of the Cid is 
unknown. The old patriarch of Spanish poe- 
try has left a monument of his existence in up- 
wards of thirteen thousand alexandrines, cele- 
brating the lives and miracles of saints and 
the Virgin, as he found them written in the 
Latin chronicles and dusty legends of his mon- 
astery. In embodying these in rude verse in 
roman paladino, or the old Spanish romance 
tongue, intelligible to the common people. 
Fray Gonzalo seems to have passed his life. 
His writings are just such as we should expect 
from the pen of a monk of the thirteenth cen- 
tury. They are more ghostly than poetical ; 

XI p 



242 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

and throughout, unction holds the place of 
inspiration. Accordingly, they illustrate very 
fully the preceding remarks ; and the more so, 
inasmuch as they are written with the most 
ample and childish credulity, and the utmost 
singleness of faith touching the events and 
miracles described. 

The following extract is taken from one of 
Berceo's poems, entitled " Vida de San Millanr 
It is a description of the miraculous appear- 
ance of Santiago and San Millan, mounted 
on snow-white steeds, and fighting for the 
cause of Christendom, at the battle of Siman- 
cas in the Campo de Toro, 

** And when the kings were in the field, — their squadrons in 
array, — 
With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray^ 
But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, — 
These were a numerous army, — a little handful those. 

** And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty, 
Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their 

thoughts on high ; 
And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright, 
Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were 

more white. 

•* They rode upon two horses more v^^hite than crystal sheen, 
And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen, 
The one, he held a crosier, — a pontiff's mitre wore ; 
The other held a crucifix, — such man ne'er saw before. 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 243 

** Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they, — 
And downward through the fields of air they urged their 

rapid way ; 
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry 

look, 
And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres 

shook. 

"The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart 
again ; 
They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain. 
And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins, 
And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins. 

"And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle- 
ground. 
They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows 

around ; 
Such deadly havoc thereithey made the foremost ranks along, 
A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throngs 

** Together with these two good knights, the champions of the 

sky. 
The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high ; 
The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore 
That in their lives such deadly fray they near had seen 

before. 

** Down went the misbelievers, — fast sped the bloody fight, — 
Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with 

fright : 
Full sorely they repented that to the field they came. 
For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with 

shame. 



244 ^'^^ Devotional Poetry of Spain 

" Another thing befell them, — they dreamed not of such 

woes, — 
The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging 

bows 
Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them 

full sore. 
And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore. 

** Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on, 
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John ; 
And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood, 
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighborhood." 

Berceo's longest poem is entitled Miraclos de 
Nuestra Senoray " Miracles of Our Lady/' It 
consists of nearly four thousand lines, and con- 
tains the description of twenty-five miracles. 
It is a complete homily on the homage and 
devotion due to the glorious Virgin, Madre 
de J hit XtOy Mother of Jesus Christ ; but it 
is written in a low and vulgar style, strikingly 
at variance with the elevated character of the 
subject. Thus, in the twentieth miracle, we 
have the account of a monk who became intox- 
icated in a wine-cellar. Having lain on the 
floor till the vesper-bell aroused him, he stag- 
gered off towards the church in most melan- 
choly plight. The Evil One besets him on the 
way, assum.ing the various shapes of a bull, a 
dog, and a lion ; but from all these perils he is 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 245 

miraculously saved by the timely intervention 
of the Virgin, who, finding him still too much 
intoxicated to make his way to bed, kindly 
takes him by the hand, leads him to his pallet, 
covers him with a blanket and a counterpane, 
smooths his pillow, and, after making the sign 
of the cross over him, tells him to rest quietly, 
for sleep will do him good. 

To a certain class of minds there may be 
something interesting and even affecting in 
descriptions which represent the spirit of a de- 
parted saint as thus assuming a corporeal 
shape, in order to assist and console human 
nature even in its baser infirmities ; but it 
ought also to be considered how much such 
descriptions tend to strip religion of its pecu- 
liar sanctity, to bring it down from its heav- 
enly abode, not merely to dwell among men, 
but, like an imprisoned culprit, to be chained 
to the derelict of principle, manacled with the 
base desire and earthly passion, and forced to 
do the menial offices of a slave. In descrip- 
tions of this kind, as in the representations of 
our Saviour and of sainted spirits in human 
shape, execution must of necessity fall far 
short of the conception. The handiwork can- 
not equal the glorious archetype, which is visi- 



246 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

ble only to the mental eye. Painting and 
sculpture are not adequate to the task of em- 
bodying in a permanent shape the glorious 
visions, the radiant forms, the glimpses of 
heaven, v^hich fill the imagination, when puri- 
fied and exalted by devotion. The hand of 
man unconsciously inscribes upon all his works 
the sentence of imperfection, which the finger 
of the invisible hand wrote upon the wall of 
the Assyrian monarch. From this it would 
seem to be not only a natural but a necessary 
conclusion, that all the descriptions of poetry 
which borrow anything, either directly or indi- 
rectly, from these bodily and imperfect repre- 
sentations, must partake of their imperfection, 
and assume a more earthly and material char- 
acter than these which come glowing and 
burning from the more spiritualized percep- 
tions of the internal sense. 

It is very far from my intention to utter any 
sweeping denunciation against the divine arts 
of painting and sculpture, as employed in the 
exhibition of Scriptural scenes and personages. 
These I esteem meet ornaments for the house 
of God ; though, as I have already said, their 
execution cannot equal the high conceptions 
of an ardent imagination, yet, whenever the 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 247 

hand of a master is visible, — when the marble 
almost moves before you, and the painting 
starts into life from the canvas, — the effect 
upon an enlightened mind will generally, if 
not universally, be to quicken its sensibilities 
and excite to more ardent devotion, by carry- 
ing the thoughts beyond the representations of 
bodily suffering, to the contemplation of the 
intenser mental agony, — the moral sublimity 
exhibited by the martyr. The impressions 
produced, however, will not be the same in all 
minds ; they will necessarily vary according to 
the prevailing temper and complexion of the 
mind which receives them. As there is no 
sound where there is no ear to receive the im- 
pulses and vibrations of the air, so is there no 
moral impression, — no voice of instruction 
from all the works of nature, and all the imita- 
tions of art, — unless there be within the soul 
itself a capacity for hearing the voice and 
receiving the moral impulse. The cause exists 
eternally and universally ; but the effect is pro- 
duced only when and where the cause has 
room to act, and just in proportion as it has 
room to act. Hence the various moral im- 
pressions, and the several degrees of the same 
moral impression, which an object may produce 



248 The Devotional Poetry 0/ Spain 

in different minds. These impressions will 
vary in kind and in degree according to the 
acuteness and the cultivation of the internal 
moral sense. And thus the representations 
spoken of above might exercise a very favor« 
able influence upon an enlightened and well- 
regulated mind, and at the same time a very 
unfavorable influence upon an unenlightened 
and superstitious one. And the reason is 
obvious. An enlightened mind beholds all 
things in their just proportions, and receives 
from them the true impressions they are calcu- 
lated to convey. It is not hoodwinked, — it is 
not shut up in a gloomy prison, till it thinks 
the walls of its own dungeon the limits of 
the universe, and the reach of its own chain 
the outer verge of all intelligence ; but it 
walks abroad ; the sunshine and the air pour 
in to enlighten and expand it; the various 
works of nature are its ministering angels ; the 
glad recipient of light and wisdom, it develops 
new powers and acquires increased capacities, 
and thus, rendering itself less subject to error, 
assumes a nearer similitude to the Eternal 
Mind. But not so the dark ^nd superstitious 
mind. It is filled with its own antique and 
mouldy furniture, — the moth-eaten tome, the 



The Devotional Poetry of Spam 249 

gloomy tapestry, the dusty curtain. The strag- 
gling sunbeam from without streams through 
the stained window, and as it enters assumes 
the colors of the painted glass ; while the half- 
extinguished fire within, now smouldering in 
its ashes, and now shooting forth a quivering 
flame, casts fantastic shadows through the 
chambers of the soul. Within the spirit sits, 
lost in its own abstractions. The voice of na- 
ture from without is hardly audible ; her beau- 
ties are unseen, or seen only in shadowy forms, 
through a colored medium, and with a strained 
and distorted vision. The invigorating air does 
not enter that mysterious chamber ; it visits 
not that lonely inmate, who, breathing only a 
close, exhausted atmosphere, exhibits in the 
languid frame and feverish pulse the marks of 
lingering, incurable disease. The picture is 
not too strongly sketched ; such is the contrast 
between the free and the superstitious mind. 
Upon the latter, which has little power over its 
ideas, — to generalize them, to place them in 
their proper light and position, to reason upon, 
to discriminate, to judge them in detail, and 
thus to arrive at just conclusions ; but, on the 
contrary, receives every crude and inadequate 
impression as it first presents itself, and treas- 



250 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

ures it up as an ultimate fact, — upon such a 
mind, representations of Scripture-scenes, like 
those mentioned above, exercise an unfavora- 
ble influence. Such a mind cannot rightly 
estimate,* it cannot feel, the work of a master ; 
and a miserable painting, or a still more mis- 
erable caricature carved in wood, will serve 
only the more to drag the spirit down to earth. 
Thus, in the unenlightened mind, these repre- 
sentations have a tendency to sensualize and 
desecrate the character of holy things. Being 
brought constantly before the eye, and repre- 
sented in a real and palpable form to the ex- 
ternal senses, they lose, by being miade too 
familiar, that peculiar sanctity with which the 
mind naturally invests the unearthly and invis- 
ible. 

It is curious to observe the influence of the 
circumstances just referred to upon the devo- 
tional poetry of Spain.* Sometimes it exhibits 

* The following beautiful Latin hymn, written by Francisco 
Xavier, the friend and companion of Loyola, and frOm his 
zejjl in the Eastern missions surnamed the Apostle of the In- 
dies, would hardly have originated in any mind but that of 
one familiar with the representations of which I have spoken 
above. 

** O Deus ! ego amo te : 
Nee amo te, ut salves me. 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 251 

itself directly and fully, sometimes indirectly 
and incidentally, but always with sufficient 

Aut quia non amantes te 
-^temo punis igne. 

*' Tu, tu, mi Jesu, totum me 
Amplexus es in cruce. 
Tulisti clavos, lanceam, 
Multamque ignominiam : 
Innumeros dolores, 
Sudores et angores, 
Ac mortem : et haec propter m^ 
Ac pro me peccatore. 

" Cur igitur non amem te, 
O Jesu amantissime ? 
Non ut in coelo salves me, 
Aut ne seternum damnes me. 
Nee proemii ullius spe : 
Sed sicut tu amasti me, 
Sic amo et amabo te : 
Solum quia rex meus es, 
Et solum quia Deus es. 
Amen." 

" O God ! my spirit loves but thee s 
Not that in heaven its home may be, 
Nor that the souls which love not thee 
Shall groan in fire eternally. 

" But thou on the accursed tree 
In mercy hast embraced me. 
For me the cruel nails, the spear, 
The ignominious scoff, didst bear. 



252 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

clearness to indicate its origin. Sometimes it 
destroys the beauty of a poem by a miserable 
conceit ; at other times it gives it the charac- 
ter of a beautiful allegory.* 

Countless, unutterable woes, — 

The bloody sweat, — death's pangs and throes, — 

These thou didst bear, all these for me, 

A sinner and estranged from thee. 

'' And wherefore no affection show, 
Jesus, to thee that lov'st me so ? 
Not that in heaven my home may be. 
Not lest I die eternally, — 
Nor from the hopes of joys above me : 
But even as thou thyself didst love me. 
So love I, and will ever love thee : 
Solely because my King art thou. 
My God forevermore as now. 

Amen." 

* I recollect but few instances of this kind of figurative 
poetry in our language. There is, however, one of most ex- 
quisite beauty and pathos, far surpassing anything I have seen 
of the kind in Spanish. It is a passage from Cowpen 

" I was a stricken deer, that left the herd 
Long since : with many an arrow deep infixt 
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. 
There was I found by one who had himself 
Been hurt by archers ; in his side he bore. 
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. 
With gentle force soliciting the darts, 
He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live.** 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 253 

The following sonnets will serve as illustra- 
tions. They are from the hand of the wonder- 
ful Lope de Vega : — 

** Shepherd ! that with thine amorous sylvan song 
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me, 
That madest thy crook from the accursed tree 
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long, — 
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains. 
For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be, 
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see 
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. 
Hear, Shepherd ! — thou that for thy flock art dying, 
O, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou 
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. 
O, wait ! — to thee my weary soul is crying, — 
Wait for me ! — yet why ask it, when I see. 
With feet nailed to the cross, thou art waiting still for me ? ** 

'*Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care 
Thou didst seek after me, — that thou didst wait, 
Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate. 
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 
O strange delusion ! — that I did not greet 
Thy blessed approach ! and O, to Heaven how lost, 
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost 
Hast chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet ! 
How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
' Soul, from thy casement look without and see 
How he persists to knock and wait for thee ! ' 
And O, how often to that voice of sorrow, 
* To-morrow we will open ! ' I replied ; 
And when the morrow came, I answered still, *To-mof- 



254 ^^^ Devotional Poetry of Spain 

The most remarkable portion of the devo* 
tional poetry of the Spaniards is to be found 
in their sacred dramas, their Vidas de Santos 
and Autos Sacrament ales. These had their 
origin in the Mysteries and Moralities of the 
dark ages, and are indeed monstrous creations 
of the imagination. The Vidas de Santos, or 
Lives of Saints, are representations of their 
miracles, and of the wonderful traditions con- 
cerning them. The Autos Sacramentales have 
particular reference to the Eucharist and the 
ceremonies of the Corpus ChristL In these the- 
atrical pieces are introduced upon the stage, 
not only angels and saints, but God, the Sav- 
iour, the Virgin Mary ; and, in strange juxta- 
position with these, devils, peasants, and kings ; 
in fine, they contain the strangest medley of 
characters, real and allegorical, which the im- 
agination can conceive. As if this were not 
enough, in the midst of what was intended as 
a solemn, religious celebration, scenes of low 
buffoonery are often introduced. 

The most remarkable of the sacred dramas 
which I have read is La Devocioii de la CriiZy 
''The Devotion of the Cross," by Calderon ; and 
it will serve as a specimen of that class of writ- 
ing. The piece commences with a dialogue 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 255 

between Lisardo, the son of Curcio, a decayed 
nobleman, and Eusebio, the hero of the play 
and lover of Julia, Lisardo's sister. Though 
th-e father's extravagance has wasted his es- 
tates, Lisardo is deeply offended that Eusebio 
should aspire to an alliance with the family, 
and draws him into a secluded place in order 
to settle their dispute with the sword. Here 
the scene opens, and, in the course of the dia- 
logue which precedes the combat, Eusebio re- 
lates that he was born at the foot of a cross, 
which stood in a rugged and desert part of 
those mountains ; that the virtue of this cross 
preserved him from the wild beasts ; that, be- 
ing found by a peasant three days after his 
birth, he was carried to a neighboring vil- 
lage, and there received the name of Eusebio 
of the Cross ; that, being thrown by his nurse 
into a well, he was heard to laugh, and was 
found floating upon the top of the water, with 
his hands placed upon his mouth in the form 
of a cross ; that the house in which he dwelt 
being consumed by fire, he escaped unharmed 
amid the flames, and it was found to be Cor- 
pus Christi day ; and, in fine, after relating 
many other similar miracles, worked by the 
power of the cross, at whose foot he was born. 



256 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

he says that he bears its image miraculously 
stamped upon his breast. After this they fight, 
and Lisardo falls mortally wounded. In the 
next scene, Eusebio has an interview with Ju- 
lia, at her father s house ; they are interrupted, 
and Eusebio conceals himself; Curcio enters, 
and informs Julia that he has determined to 
send her that day to a convent, that she 
may take the veil, ''para ser de Cristo esposa!^ 
While they are conversing, the dead body of 
Lisardo is brought in by peasants, and Eusebio 
is declared to be the murderer. The scene 
closes by the escape of Eusebio. The second 
act, ox Jornada, discovers Eusebio as the leader 
of a band of robbers. They fire Upon a trav- 
eller, who proves to be a priest, named Al- 
berto, and who is seeking a spot in those 
solitudes wherein to establish a hermitage. 
The shot is prevented from taking effect by 
a book which the pious old man carries in 
his bosom, and which he says is a " treatise 
on the true origin of the divine and heavenly 
tree, on which, dying with courage and forti- 
tude, Christ triumphed over death ; in fine, 
the book is called the 'Miracles of the Cross,"* 
They suffer the priest to depart unharmed, 
who in consequence promises Eusebio that he 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 257 

shall not die without confession, but that wher- 
ever he may be, if he but call upon his name, 
he will hasten to absolve him. In the mean 
time, Julia retires to a convent, and Curcio 
goes with an armed force in pursuit of Euse- 
bio, who has resolved to gain admittance to 
Julia's convent. He scales the walls of the 
convent by night, and silently gropes his way 
along the corridor. Julia is discovered sleep- 
ing in her cell, with a taper beside her. He 
is, however, deterred from executing his mali- 
cious designs, by discovering upon her breast 
the form of a cross, similar to that which he 
bears upon his own, and "Heaven would not 
suffer him, though so great an offender, to lose 
his respect for the cross." To be brief, he 
leaps from the convent-walls and escapes ta 
the mountains. Julia, counting her honor lost, 
having offended God, " como a Dios, y canto 
a esposal' pursues him, — descends the ladder 
from the convent-wall, and, when she seeks to 
return to her cell, finds the ladder has been 
removed. In her despair, she accuses Heaven 
of having withdrawn its clemency, and vows 
to perform such deeds of wickedness as shall 
terrify both heaven and hell. 

The \ki\x^ Jornada transports the scene back 



258 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

to the mountains. Julia, disguised in man^s 
apparel, with her face concealed, is brought to 
Eusebio by a party of the banditti. She chal- 
lenges him to single combat ; and he accepts 
the challenge, on condition that his antago- 
nist shall declare who he is. Julia discovers 
herself; and relates several horrid murders 
she has committed since leaving the convent 
Their interview is here interrupted by the en- 
trance of banditti, who inform Eusebio that 
Curcio, with an armed force, from all the 
neighboring villages, is approaching. The at- 
tack commences. Eusebio and Curcio meet, 
but a secret and mysterious sympathy pre- 
vents them from fighting ; and a great num- 
ber of peasants, coming in at this moment, 
rush upon Eusebio in a body, and he is thrown 
down a precipice. There Curcio discovers him, 
expiring with his numerous wounds. The <//- 
notieinent of the piece commences. Curcio, 
moved by compassion, examines a wound in 
Eusebio's breast, discovers the mark of the 
cross, and thereby recognizes him to be his 
son. Eusebio expires, calling on the name of 
Alberto, who shortly after enters, as if lost 
in those mountains. A voice from the dead 
body of Eusebio calls his name. I shall here 
transcribe a part of the scene. 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 259 

Alberto. 
Homeward now from Rome returning, 
In the deep and silent pauses 
Of the night, upon this mountain 
I again have lost my way ! 
This must be the very region 
Where my life Eusebio gave me, 
And I fear from his marauders 
Danger threatens me to-day ! 

Eusebio. 
Ho ! Alberto ! 

Alberto. 

What breath is it 
Of a voice so full of terror, 
That aloud my name repeating 
Sounded then upon mine ear ? 

Eusebio. 
Ho ! Alberto ! 

Alberto. 
It pronounces 
Yet again my name ; methought it 
Came in this direction. Let me 
Go still nearer. 

Gil. 

Santo Dies ! 
'T is Eusebio, and my terror 
Of all terrors is the greatest S 

Eusebio. 
Ho I Alberto ! 

Alberto. 
Nearer sounds it f 
O thou voice that ridest swift 



26o The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

On the wind, my name repeating, 
Who art thou? 

EUSEBIO. 

Eusebio am L 
Come, Alberto, hither hasten, 
Hither, where I buried he ; 
Come, and lift aside these branches ; 
Do not fear. 

Alberto. 

No fear have I. 

Gil. 
I have ! 

Alberto [uncovering Eusebio), 

Now thou art uncovered, 

Tell me, in the name of God, 

What thou wishest 

Eusebio. 
In his name 
'T was my Faith, Alberto, called thec. 
So that ere my life be ended 
Thou shouldst hear me in confession. 
Long ago I should have died. 
For remained untenanted 
By the spirit this dead body ; 
But the mighty blow of death 
Only robbed it of its motion, 
Did not sever it asunder. 

He rises. 
Come where I may make confession 
Of my sins, Alberto, for they 
More are than the sands of ocean. 
Or the atoms in the sun ! 
So much doth avail with Heaven 
The Devotion of the Cross ! 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 261 

Eusebio then retires to confess himself to Al- 
berto ; and Curcio afterward relates, that, when 
the venerable saint had given him absolution, 
his body again fell dead at his feet. Julia dis- 
covers herself, overwhelmed with the thoughts 
of her passion for Eusebio and her other crimes, 
and as Curcio, in a transport of indignation, 
endeavors to kill her, she seizes a cross which 
stands over Eusebio's grave, and with it as- 
cends to heaven, while Alberto shouts, '' Gran 
milagro ! " and the curtain falls. 

Thus far I have spoken of the devotional 
poetry of Spain as modified by the peculiari- 
ties of religious faith and practice. Consid- 
ered apart from the dogmas of a creed, and as 
the expression of those pure and elevated feel- 
ings of religion which are not the prerogative 
of any one sect or denomination, but the com- 
mon privilege of all, it possesses strong claims 
to our admiration and praise. I know of noth- 
ing in any modern tongue so beautiful as 
some of its finest passages. The thought 
springs heavenward from the soul, — the lan- 
guage comes burning from the lip. The imag- 
ination of the poet seems spiritualized,; with 
nothing of earth, and all of heaven, — a heaven 
like that of his own native clim.e, without a 



262 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

cloud, or a vapor of earth, to obscure its 
brightness. His voice, speaking the harma- 
nious accents of that noble tongue, seems to 
flow from the lips of an angel, — melodious to 
the ear and to the internal sense, — breathing 
those 

** Effectual whispers, whose still voice 
The soul itself more feels than hears. '* 

The following sonnets of Francisco de Alda- 
na, a writer remarkable for the beauty of his 
conceptions and the harmony of his verse, are 
illustrations of this remark. In what glowing 
language he describes the aspirations of the 
soul for its paternal heaven, its celestial home ! 
how beautifully he portrays in a few lines the 
strong desire, the ardent longing, of the exiled 
and imprisoned spirit to wing its flight away 
and be at rest ! The strain bears our thoughts 
upward with it ; it transports us to the heav- 
enly country ; it whispers to the soul, — High- 
er, immortal spirit ! higher ! 

" Clear fount of light ! my native land on high, 
Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 
Mansion of truth ! without a veil or shade, 
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence. 
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 
But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not death. 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 263 

Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 

A stranger in this prison-house of clay. 

The exiled spirit weeps and siglis for thee ! 

Heavenward the bright perfections I adore 

Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, 

That whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be." 

*' O Lord ! that seest from yon starry height 
Centred in one the future and the past. 
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast 
The world obscures in me what once was bright ! 
Eternal Sun ! the warmth which thou hast given 
To cheer hfe's flowery April fast decays ; 
Yet in the hoary winter of my days. 
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven. 
Celestial King ! O, let thy presence pass 
Before my spirit, and an image fair 
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high. 
As the reflected image in a glass 
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there, 
And owes its being to the gazer's eye/' 

The prevailing characteristics of Spanish 
devotional poetry are warmth of imagination, 
and depth and sincerity of feeling. The con- 
ception is always striking and original, and, 
when not degraded by dogmas, and the poor, 
puerile conceits arising from them, beautiful 
and sublime. This results from the frame and 
temperament of the mind, and is a general 
characteristic of the Spanish poets, not only in 
this department of song, but in all others. The 
very ardor of imagination which, exercised up- 



264 The Devotio7zal Poetry of Spain 

on minor themes, leads them into extravagance 
and hyperbole, when left to act in a higher and 
wider sphere conducts them nearer and nearer 
to perfection. When imagination spreads its 
wings in the bright regions of devotional song, 
• — in the pure empyrean, — judgment should 
direct its course, but there is no danger of its 
soaring too high. The heavenly land still lies 
beyond its utmost flight. There are heights it 
cannot reach ; there are fields of air which tire 
its wing ; there is a splendor which dazzles its 
vision ; — for there is a glory " which eye hath 
not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered 
into the heart of man to conceive.'* 

But perhaps the greatest charm of the devo- 
tional poets of Spain is their sincerity. Most 
of them were ecclesiastics, — men who had in 
sober truth renounced the realities of this life 
for the hopes and promises of another. We 
are not to suppose that all who take holy 
orders are saints ; but we should be still far- 
ther from believing that all are hypocrites. It 
would be even more absurd to suppose that 
none are sincere in their professions than that 
all are. Besides, with whatever feelings a man 
may enter the monastic life, there is something 
in its discipline and privations which has a 
tendency to wean the mind from earth, and 



The Devotional Poetry of Spain 265 

to fix it upon heaven. Doubtless many have 
seemingly renounced the world from motives 
of worldly aggrandizement ; and others have 
renounced it because it has renounced them. 
The former have carried with them to the 
cloister their earthly ambition, and the latter 
their dark misanthropy ; and though many 
have daily kissed the cross and yet grown 
hoary in iniquity, and shrived their souls that 
they might sin more gayly on, — yet solitude 
works miracles in the heart, and many who 
enter the cloister from worldly motives find it a 
school wherein the soul may be trained to 
more holy purposes and desires. There is not 
half the corruption and hypocrisy within the 
convent's walls that the church bears the 
shame of hiding there. Hermits may be holy 
men, though knaves have sometimes been her- 
mits. Were they all hypocrites, who of old 
for their souls' sake exposed their naked 
bodies to the burning sun of Syria.? Were 
they, who wandered houseless in the solitudes 
of Engaddi } Were they who dwelt beneath 
the palm-trees by the Red Sea? O, no! 
They were ignorant, they were deluded, they 
were fanatic, but they were not hypocrites ; if 
there be any sincerity in human professions 



266 The Devotional Poetry of Spain 

and human actions, they were not hypocrites. 
During the Middle Ages, there was corrup- 
tion in the Church, — foul, shameful corrupi- 
tion ; and now also hypocrisy may scourge it- 
self in feigned repentance, and ambition hide 
its face beneath a hood ; yet all is not there- 
fore rottenness that wears a cowl. Many a 
pure spirit, through heavenly-mindedness, and 
an ardent though mistaken zeal, has fled from 
the temptations of the world to seek in solitude 
and self-communion a closer walk with God. 
And not in vain. They have found the peace 
they sought. They have felt, indeed, what 
many profess to feel, but do not feel, — that 
they are strangers and sojourners here, travel- 
lers who are bound for their home in a far 
country. It is this feeling which I speak of as 
giving a peculiar charm to the devotional poe- 
try of Spain. Compare its spirit with the 
spirit which its authors have exhibited in their 
lives. They speak of having given up the 
world, and it is no poetical hyperbole ; they 
speak of longing to be free from the weakness 
of the flesh, that they may commence their 
conversation in heaven, — and we feel that 
they had already begun it in lives of peni- 
tence, meditation, and prayer. 



THE PILGRIM'S BREVIARY 



If thou vouchsafe to read this treatise, it shall seem no otherwise to thee 
than the way to an ordinary- traveller, — sometimes fair, sometimes foul ; 
here champaign, there enclosed ; barren in one place, better soyle in an- 
other ; by woods, groves, hills, dales, plains, I shall lead thee. 

Burton's Anatomie of Melancholy. 



THE glittering spires and cupolas of Ma- 
drid have sunk behind me. Again and 
again I have turned to take a parting look, till 
at length the last trace of the city has disap- 
peared, and I gaze only upon the sky above it. 
And now the sultry day is passed ; the 
freshening twilight falls, and the moon and 
the evening star are in the sky. This river is 
the Xarama. This noble avenue of trees leads 
to Aranjuez. Already its lamps begin to 
twinkle in the distance. The hoofs of our 
weary mules clatter upon the wooden bridge ; 
the public square opens before us ; yonder, in 
the moonlight, gleam the walls of the royal 
palace, and near it, with a rushing sound, fall 
the waters of the Tagus. 



268 The Pilgrim's Breviary 

We have now entered the vast and melan- 
choly plains of La Mancha, — a land to which 
the genius of Cervantes has given a vulgo-clas- 
sic fame. Here are the windmills, as of old ; 
every village has its Master Nicholas, — every 
venta its Maritornes. Wondrous strong are 
the spells of fiction ! A few years pass away, 
and history becomes romance, and romance, 
history. To the peasantry of Spain, Don 
Quixote and his squire are historic person- 
ages ; and woe betide the luckless wight who 
unwarily takes the name of Dulcinea upon his 
lips within a league of El Toboso ! The trav- 
eller, too, yields himself to the delusion ; and 
as he traverses the arid plains of La Mancha, 
pauses with willing credulity to trace the foot- 
steps of the mad Hidalgo, with his "velvet 
breechps on a holiday, and slippers of the 
same." The high-road from Aranjuez to Cor- 
dova crosses and recrosses the knight-erranf s 
path. Between Manzanares and Valdepenas 
stands the inn where he was dubbed a knight ; 
to the northward, the spot where he encoun- 
tered the windmills ; to the westward, the inn 
where he made the balsam of Fierabras, the 
scenes of his adventures with the fulHng- 
mills, and his tournament with the barber ; and 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 269 

to the southward, the Sierra Morena, where 
he did penance, like the knights of olden 
time. 

For my own part, I confess that there are 
seasons when I am willing to be the dupe of 
my imagination ; and if this harmless folly but 
lends its .wings to a dull-paced hour, I am even 
ready to believe a fairy tale. 



On the fourth day of our journey we dined 
at Manzanares, in an old and sombre-looking 
inn, which, I think, some centuries back, must 
have been the dwelling of a grandee. A wide 
gateway admitted us into the inn-yard, which 
was a paved court, in the centre of the edifice, 
surrounded by a colonnade, and open to the 
sky above. Beneath this colonnade we were 
shaved by the village barber, a supple, smooth- 
faced Figaro, with a brazen laver and a gray 
montera cap. There, too, we dined in the 
open air, with bread as white as snow, and the 
rich red wine of Valdepefias ; and there, in the 
listlessness of after-dinner, smoked the sleep- 
iaviting cigar, while in the court-yard before 
us the muleteers danced a fandango with the 
maids of the inn, to such music as three blind 



270 The Pilgrim^ s' Breviary 

musicians could draw from a violin, a guitar, 
and a clarinet. When this scene was over, 
and the blind men had groped their way out 
of the yard, I fell into a delicious slumber, 
from which I was soon awakened by music of 
another kind. It was a clear, youthful voice, 
singing a national song to the sound of a gui- 
tar. I opened my eyes, and near me stood a 
tall, graceful figure, leaning against one of the 
pillars of the colonnade, in the attitude of a 
serenader. His dress was that of a Spanish 
student. He wore a black gown and cassock, 
a pair of shoes made of an ex-pair of boots, 
and a hat in the shape of a half-moon, with 
the handle of a wooden spoon sticking out 
'on one side like a cockade. When he had 
finished his song, we invited him to the rem- 
nant of a Vich sausage, a bottle of Valdepe- 
fias, bread at his own discretion, and a pure 
Havana cigar. The stranger made a leg, and 
accepted these signs of good company with 
the easy air of a man who is accustomed to 
earn his livelihood by hook or by crook; and 
as the wine was of that stark and generous 
kind which readily " ascends one into the 
brain," our gentleman with the half-moon hat 
grew garrulous and full of anecdote, and soon 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 271 

told us his own story, beginning with his birth 
and parentage, Uke the people in Gil Bias. 

" I am the son of a barber," quoth he ; " and 
first saw the light some twenty years ago, in 
the great city of Madrid. At a very early age, 
I was taught to do something for myself, and 
began my career of gain by carrying a slow- 
match in the Prado, for the gentlemen to light 
their cigars with, and catching the wax that 
dropped from the friars' tapers at funerals and 
other religious processions. 

" At school I was noisy and unruly ; and 
was finally expelled for hooking the master s 
son with a pair of ox-horns, which I had tied 
to my head, in order to personate the bull in 
a mock bull-fight. Soon after this my father 
died, and I went to live with my maternal un- 
cle, a curate in Fuencarral. He was a man of 
learning, and resolved that I should be like 
him. He set his heart upon making a phy- 
sician of me ; and to this end taught me Latin 
and Greek. 

" In due time I was sent to the University 
of Alcala. Here a new world opened before 
me. What novelty, — what variety, — what 
excitement ! But, alas ! three months were 
hardly gone, when news came that my wor- 



272 The Pilgrim^ s Breviary 

thy uncle had passed to a better world. I 
was now left to shift for myself I was penni- 
less, and lived as I^could, not as I would. I 
became a sopista, a soup-eater, — a knight of 
the wooden spoon. I see you do not under- 
stand me. In other words, then, I became one 
of that respectable body of charity scholars 
who go armed with their wooden spoons to 
eat the allowance of eleemosynary soup which 
is daily served out to them at the gate of the 
convents. I had no longer house nor home. 
But necessity is the mother of invention. I 
became a hanger-on of those who were more 
fortunate than myself; studied in other peo- 
ple's books, slept in other people's beds, and 
breakfasted at other people's expense. This 
course of life has been demoralizing, but it has 
quickened my wits to a wonderful degree. 

" Did you ever read the life of the Gran Ta- 
cano, by Quevedo } In the first book you 
have a faithful picture of life in a Spanish 
University. What was true in his day is true 
in ours. O Alcala ! Alcala ! if your walls had 
tongues as well as ears, what tales could they 
repeat ! what midnight frolics ! what madcap 
revelries ! what scenes of merriment and mis- 
chief ! How merry is a student's life, and yet 



The Pilgrim^ s Breviary 273 

how changeable ! AlU mate feasting and fast- 
ing, — alternate Lent and Carnival, — alter- 
nate want and extravagance ! Care given to 
the winds, — no thought beyond the pass- 
ing hour ; yesterday, forgotten, — to-morrow, 
a word in an unknown tongue ! 

" Did you ever hear of raising the dead ? 
not literally, — but such as the student raised, 
when he dug for the soul of the licentiate Pe- 
dro Garcias, at the fountain between Penafiel 
and Salamanca, — money ? No ? Well, it is 
done after this wise. Gambling, you know, is 
our great national vice ; and then gamblers 
are so dishonest ! Now, our game is to cheat 
the cheater. We go at night to some noted 
gaming-house, — five or six of us in a body. 
We stand around the table, watch those that 
are at play, and occasionally put in a trifle 
ourselves to avoid suspicion. At length the 
favorable moment arrives. Some eager play- 
er ventures a large stake. I stand behind 
his chair. He wins. As quick as thought, I 
stretch my arm over his shoulder and seize 
the glittering prize, saying very coolly, * I have 
won at last.* My gentleman turns round in a 
passion, and I meet his indignant glance with 
a look of surprise. He storms, and I expostu- 



274 ^^^ Pilgrim's Breviary 

late ; he menaces, — I heed his menaces no 
more than the buzzing of a fly that has burnt 
his wings in my lamp. He calls the whole 
table to witness ; but the whole table is busy, 
each with his own gain or loss, and there 
stand my comrades, all loudly asserting that 
the stake was mine. What can he do 1 there 
was a mistake ; he swallows the affront as best 
he may, and we bear away the booty. This 
we call raising the dead. You say it is dis- 
graceful, — dishonest. Our maxim is, that all 
is fair among sharpers ; Baylar al son que se 
tocUy — Dance to any tune that is fiddled. Be- 
sides, as I said before, poverty is demoralizing. 
One loses the nice distinctions of right and 
wrong, of meiim and ttcum. 

" Thus merrily pass the hours of term-time. 
When the summer vacations come round, I 
sling my guitar over my shoulder, and with 
a light heart, and a Hghter pocket, scour the 
country, like a strolling piper or a mendicant 
friar. Like the industrious ant, in summer I 
provide for winter ; for in vacation we have 
time for reflection, and make the great discov- 
ery, that there is a portion of time called the 
future. I pick up a trifle here and a trifle 
there, in all the towns and villages through 



The Pilgrim! s Bi^eviary 275 

which I pass, and before the end of my tour 
I find myself quite rich — for the son of a 
barber. This we call the vida tunantescUy — 
a rag-tag-and-bobtail sort of life. And yet the 
vocation is as honest as that of a begging 
Franciscan. Why not ? 

" And now, gentlemen, having dined at your 
expense, with your leave I will put this loaf of 
bread and the remains of this excellent Vich 
sausage into my pocket, and, thanking you for 
your kind hospitality, bid you a good after- 
noon. God be with you, gentlemen ! " 



In general, the aspect of La Mancha is des- 
olate and sad. Around you lies a parched 
and sunburnt plain, which, like the ocean, has 
no limits but the sky ; and straight before you, 
for many a weary league, runs the dusty and 
level road, without the shade of a single tree. 
The villages you pass through are poverty- 
stricken and half-depopulated ; and the squal- 
id inhabitants wear a look of misery that 
makes the heart ache. Every league or two, 
the ruinc of a post-house, or a roofless cottage 
with shattered windows and blackened walls, 
tells a sad tale of the last war. It was there 



276 The Pilgrim! s Breviary 

that a little band of peasantry made a de's- 
perate stand against the French, and perished 
by the bullet, the sword, or the bayonet. The 
, lapse of many years has not changed the 
scene, nor repaired the battered wall ; and at 
almost every step the traveller may pause and 
exclaim : — 

*' Here was the cflamp, the watch-flame, and the host ; 
Here the bold peasant stormed the dragon's nest " 

From Valdepenas southward the country 
wears a more lively and picturesque aspect. 
The landscape breaks into hill and valley, cov- 
ered with vineyards and olive-fields ; and be- 
fore you rise the dark ridges of the Sierra 
Morena, lifting their sullen fronts into a heav- 
en all gladness and sunshine. Ere long you 
enter the wild mountain-pass of Despefia- 
Perros. A sudden turn in the road brings 
you to a stone column, surmounted by an 
iron cross, marking the boundary line be- 
tween La Mancha and Andalusia. Upon one 
side of this column is carved a sorry-looking 
face, not unlike the death's-heads on the tomb- 
stones of a country church-yard. Over it is 
written this inscription : " El Verdadero 

ReTRATO DE la SANTA CARA DEL DiOS DE 

Xaen," — The true portrait of the holy coun- 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 277 

tenance of the God of Xaen ! I was so r»uch 
struck with this strange superscription that I 
stopped to copy it. 

" Do you really believe that this is what it 
pretends to be ? " said I to a muleteer, who 
was watching my movements. 

" I don't know," replied he, shrugging his 
brawny shoulders ; " they say it is." 

" Who says it is t " 

" The priest, — the Padre Cura." 

" I supposed so. And how was this por- 
trait taken t " 

He could not tell. The Padre Cura knew 
all about it. 

When I joined my companions, who were a 
little in advance of me with the carriage, I got 
the mystery explained. The Catholic Church 
boasts of three portraits of our Saviour, mirac- 
ulously preserved upon the folds of a hand- 
kerchief, with which St. Veronica wiped the 
sweat from his brow, on the day of the cruci- 
fixion. One of these is at Toledo, another in 
the kingdom of Xaen, and the third at Rome. 



The impression which this monument of 
superstition made upon my mind was soon 



278 The Pilgrim's Breviary 

effaced by the magnificent scene which now 
burst upon me. The road winds up the 
mountain-side with gradual ascent ; wild, 
shapeless, gigantic crags overhang it upon 
the right, and upon the left the wary foot 
starts back from the brink of a fearful chasm 
hundreds of feet in depth. Its sides are black 
with ragged pines, and rocks that have top- 
pled down from above ; and at the bottom, 
scarcely visible, wind the silvery waters of a 
little stream, a tributary of the Guadalquivir. 
The road skirts the ravine for miles, — now 
climbing the barren rock, and now sliding 
gently downward into shadowy hollows, and 
crossing some rustic bridge thrown over a wild 
mountain-brook. 

At length the scene changed. We stood 
upon the southern slope of the Sierra, and 
looked down upon the broad, luxuriant val- 
leys of Andalusia, bathed in the gorgeous 
splendor of a southern sunset. The land- 
scape had already assumed the "burnished 
livery " of autumn ; but the air I breathed 
was the soft and balmy breath of spring, — 
the eternal spring of Andalusia. 

If ever you should be . fortunate enough to 
visit this part of Spain, stop for the night at 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 279 

the village of La Carolina. It is indeed a 
model for all villages, — with its broad streets, 
its neat, white houses, its spacious market- 
place surrounded with a colonnade, and its 
public walk ornamented with fountains and 
set out with luxuriant trees. I doubt whether 
all Spain can show a village more beautiful 
than this. 



The approach to Cordova from the east is 
enchanting. The sun was just rising as we 
crossed the Guadalquivir and drew near to the 
city ; and, alighting from the carriage, I pur- 
sued my way on foot, the better to enjoy the 
scene and the pure morning air. The dew still 
glistened on every leaf and spray ; for the burn- 
ing sun had not yet cHmbed the tall hedge-row 
of wild figs and aloes which skirts the roadside. 
The hjghway wound along through gardens, 
orchards, and vineyards, and here and there 
above me towered the glorious palm in all 
its leafy magnificence. On my right, a swell- 
ing mountain-ridge, covered with verdure and 
sprinkled with little white hermitages, looked 
forth towards the rising sun ; and on the left, 
in a long, graceful curve, swept the bright wa- 
ters of the Guadalquivir, pursuing their silent 



28o TIu Pilgrim's Breviary 

journey through a verdant reach of soft low- 
land landscape. There, amid all the luxuri- 
ance of this sunny clime, arises the ancient 
city of Cordova, though stripped, alas ! of its 
former magnificence. All that reminds you of 
the past is the crumbling wall of the city, and 
a Saracen mosque, now changed to a Chris- 
tian cathedral. The stranger, who is familiar 
with the history of the Moorish dominion in 
Spain, pauses with a sigh, and asks himself. Is 
this the imperial city of Alhakam the Just, 
and Abdoulrahman the Magnificent ? 



This, then, is Seville, that " pleasant city, 
famous for oranges and women." After all I 
have heard of its beauty, I am disappointed in 
finding it less beautiful than my imagination 
had painted it. The wise saw, — 

** Quien no ha visto Se villa, 
No ha visto maravilla," — 

He who has not seen Seville has seen no 
marvel, — is an Andalusian gasconade. This, 
however, is the judgment of a traveller weary 
and wayworn with a journey of twelve succes- 
sive days in a carriage drawn by mules ; and 
I am well aware how much our opinions of 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 281 

men and things are colored by these trivial 
ills. A sad spirit is like a rainy day ; its 
mists and shadows darken the brightest sky, 
and clothe the fairest landscape in gloom. 

I am, likewise, a disappointed man in an- 
other respect. I have come all the way from 
Madrid to Seville without being robbed ! And 
this, too, when I journeyed at a snail's pace, 
and had bought a watch large enough for the 
clock of a village church, for the express pur- 
pose of having it violently torn from me by a 
fierce-whiskered highwayman, with his blun- 
derbuss and his, " Boca abajo, ladrones ! " If 
I print this in a book, I am undone. What! 
travel in Spain and not be robbed ! To be 
sure, I came very near it more than once. Al- 
most every village we passed through had 
its tale to tell of atrocities committed in the 
neighborhood. In one place, the stage-coach 
had been stopped and plundered ; in another, 
a man had been murdered and thrown into 
the river ; here and there a rude wooden cross 
and a shapeless pile of stones marked the spot 
where some unwary traveller had met his fate ; 
and at night, seated around the blazing hearth 
of the inn-kitchen, my fellow-travellers would 
converse in a mysterious undertone of the dan- 



282 The Pilgrhn's Breviary 

gers we were to pass through on the morrow. 
But th-e morrow came and went, and, alas ! 
neither salteador, nor ratero moved a finger. 
At one place, we were a day too late ; at an- 
other, a day too early. 

I am now at the Fojida de los Americanos, 
My chamber-door opens upon a gallery, be- 
neath which is a little court paved with mar- 
ble, having a fountain in the centre. As I 
write, I can just distinguish the tinkling of 
its tiny jet, falling into the circular basin with 
a murmur so gentle that it scarcely breaks the 
silence of the night. At day-dawn I start for 
Cadiz, promising myself a pleasant sail down 
the Guadalquivir. All I shall be able to say 
of Seville is what I have written above, — that 
it is " a pleasant city, famous for oranges and 



women." 



I AM at length in Cadiz. I came across the 
bay yesterday morning in an open boat from 
Santa Maria, and have established myself in 
very pleasant rooms, which look out upon the 
Plaza de San Antonio, the public square of the 
city. The morning sun awakes me, and at 
evening the sea-breeze comes in at my window. 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 283 

At night the square is lights by lamps sus- 
pended from the trees, and thronged with a 
brilUant crowd of the young and gay. 

Cadiz is beautiful almost beyond imagina- 
tion. The cities of our dreams are not more 
enchanting. It lies like a delicate sea-shell 
upon the brink of the ocean, so wondrous fair 
that it seems not formed for man. In sooth, 
the Paphian queen, born of the feathery sea- 
foam, dwells here. It is the city of beauty 
and of love. 

The women of Cadiz are world-renowned for 
their loveliness. Surely earth has none more 
dazzling than a daughter of that bright, burn- 
ing clime. What a faultless figure ! what a 
dainty foot ! what dignity ! what matchless 
grace ! 

** What eyes, — what lips, — what everything about her ! 
How like a swan she swims her pace, and bears 
Her silver breasts ! " 

The Gaditana is not ignorant of her charms. 
She knows full well the necromancy of a smile. 
You see it in the flourish of her fan, — a magic 
wand, whose spell is powerful ; you see it in 
her steady gaze, the elastic step, 

** The veil, 
Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand. 



284 The Pilgrim's Breviary 

While the o'erpowering eye, that turns you pale, 
Flashes into the heart" 

When I am grown old and gray, and sit by 
the fireside wrapped in flannels, if, in a listless 
moment, recalling what is now the present, 
but will then be the distant and almost forgot- 
ten past, I turn over the leaves of this journal 
till my watery eye falls upon the page I have 
just written, I shall smile at the enthusiasm 
with which I have sketched this portrait. 
And where will then be the bright forms that 
now glance before me, like the heavenly crea- 
tions of a dream ? All gone, — all gone ! Or, 
if perchance a few still linger upon earth, they 
will be bowed with age and sorrow, saying 
their paternosters with a tremulous voice. 

Old age is a Pharisee ; for he makes broad 
his phylacteries, and wears them upon his 
brow, inscribed with prayer, but in the " crook- 
ed autograph " of a palsied hand. *' I see with 
pain," says Madame de Pompadour, "that 
there is nothing durable upon earth. We 
bring into the world a fair face, and lo ! in less 
than thirty years it is covered with wrinkles ; 
after which a woman is no longer good for 
anything." 

Were I to translate these sombre reflections 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 285 

into choice Castilian, and read them to the 
bright-eyed maiden who is now leaning over 
the balcony opposite, she would laugh, and 
laughing say, " Cuando el demonio es viejoy se 
mete frayle!' 



The devotion paid at the shrine of the Vir- 
gin is one of the most prominent and charac- 
teristic features of the Catholic religion. In 
Spain it is one of its most attractive features. 
In the southern provinces, in Granada and in 
Andalusia, which the inhabitants call " La ti- 
erra de Maria Santisimal' — the land of the 
most holy Mary, — this adoration is ardent 
and enthusiastic. There is one of its outward 
observances which struck me as peculiarly 
beautiful and impressive. I refer to the Ave 
Maria, an evening service of the Virgin. Just 
as the e\^ning twilight commences, the bell 
tolls to prayer. In a moment, throughout the 
crowded city, the hum of business is hushed, 
the thronged streets are still ; the gay multi- 
tudes that crowd the public walks stand mo- 
tionless ; the angry dispute ceases ; the laugh 
of merriment dies away ; life seems for a mo- 
ment to be arrested in its career^ and to stand 



286 The Pilgrw2!s Breviary 

still. The multitude uncover their heads, and, 
with the sign of the cross, whisper their even- 
ing prayer to the Virgin. Then the bells ring 
a merrier peal ; the crowds move again in the 
streets, and the rush and turmoil of business 
recommence. I have always listened with 
feelings of solemn pleasure to the bell that 
sounded forth the Ave Maria. As it an- 
nounced the close of day, it seemed also to call 
the soul from its worldly occupations to repose 
and devotion. There is something beautiful 
in thus measuring the march of time. The 
hour, too, naturally brings the heart into 
unison with the feelings and sentiments of de- 
votion. The close of the day, the shadows of 
evening, the calm of twilight, inspire a feeling 
of tranquillity ; and though I may differ from 
the Catholic in regard to the object of his sup- 
plication, yet it seems to me a beautiful and 
appropriate solemnity, that, at the close of 
each daily epoch of life, — which, if it have not 
been fruitful in incidents to ourselves, has, 
nevertheless, been so to many of the great hu- 
man family, — the voice of a whole people, and 
of the whole world, should go up to heaven in 
praise, and supplication, and thankfulness. 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 287 

** The Moorish king rides up and down 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
*Woe is me, Alhama ! " 

Thus commences one of the fine old Span- 
ish ballads, commemorating the downfall of 
the city of Alhama, where we have stopped to 
rest our horses on their fatiguing march from , 
Velez-Malaga to Granada. Alhama was one 
of the last strongholds of the Moslem power in 
Spain. Its fall opened the way for the Chris- 
tian army across the Sierra Nevada, and 
spread consternation and despair through the 
city of Granada. The description in the old 
ballad is highly graphic and beautiful ; and 
its beauty is well preserved in the spirited 
English translation by Lord Byron. 



As ^e crossed the Sierra Nevada, the snowy 
mountains that look down upon the luxuriant 
Vega of Granada, v/e overtook a solitary rider, 
who was singing a wild national song, to cheer 
the loneliness of his journey. He was an ath- 
letic man, and rode a spirited horse of the 
Arab breed. A black bearskin jacket covered 
his broad shoulders, and around his waist was 



288 The Pilgriiit's Breviary 

wound the crimson y^iz, so universally worn by 
the Spanish peasantry. His velvet breeches 
reached below his knee, just meeting a pair of 
leather gaiters of elegant workmanship. A 
gay silken handkerchief was tied round his 
head, and over this he wore the little round 
Andalusian hat, decked out with a profusion of 
tassels of silk and bugles of silver. The steed 
he mounted was dressed no less gayly than his 
rider. There was a silver star upon his fore- 
head, and a bright-colored ^voollen tassel be- 
tween his ears ; a blanket striped with blue and 
red covered the saddle, and even the Moorish 
stirrups were ornamented with brass studs. 

This personage was a contrabandista, — a 
smuggler between Granada and the seaport of 
Velez-Malaga. The song he sung was one of 
the popular ballads of the country. 

'* Worn with speed is my good steed, 
And I march me hurried, worried ; 
Onward ! caballito mio, 
With the white star in thy forehead I 
Onward ! for here comes the Ronda, 
And I hear their rifles crack ! 
Ay, jaleo ! Ay, ay, jaleo ! 
Ay, jaleo ! they cross our track ! " * 

* I here transcribe the original of which this is a single 
stanza. Its only merit is simplicity, and a certain grace wbioh 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 289 

The air to which these words are sung is 
wild and high ; and the prolonged and mourn- 
ful cadence gives it the sound of a funeral wail, 
or a cry for help. To have its full effect 
upon the mind, it should be heard by night, in 
some wild mountain-pass, and from a distance. 

belongs to its provincial phraseology, and which would be lost 
in a translation. 

* ' Yo que soy contrabandista, 

Y campo por mi respeto, 
A todos los desafio, 
Porque a naide tengo mieo. 

i Ay, jaleo ! \ Muchachas, jaleo I 
I Quien me compra jilo negro ? 

" Mi caballo esta cansao, 

Y yo me marcho corriendo. 
\ Anda, caballito mio, 
Caballo mio careto ! 

\ Anda, que viene la ronda, 

Y se mueve el tiroteo ! 

J Ay, jaleo ! j Ay, ay, jaleo ! 
\ Ay, jaleo, que nos cortan ! 
Sacame de aqueste aprieto, 

** Mi caballo ya no corre, 
Ya mi caballo paro. 
Todo para en este mundo, 
Tambien he de parar yo. 
J Ay, jaleo ! \ Muchachas, jaleo \ 
i Quien me compra jilo negro ? " 

13 s 



290 The Pilgrim's Breviary 

Then the harsh tones come softened to the 
ear, and, in unison with the hour and the 
scene, produce a pleasing melancholy. 

The contrabandista accompanied us to Gra- 
nada. The sun had already set when we en- 
tered the Vega, — those luxuriant meadows 
which stretch away to the south and west of 
the city, league after league of rich, unbroken 
verdure. It was Saturday night ; and, as the 
gathering twilight fell around us, and one by 
one the lamps of the city twinkled in the dis- 
tance, suddenly kindling here and there, as 
the stars start to their places in the evening 
sky, a loud peal of bells rang forth its glad 
welcome to the day of rest, over the meadows 
to the distant hills, " swinging slow, with sol- 
emn roar." 



Is this reality and not a dream } Am I in- 
deed in Granada } Am I indeed within the 
walls of that earthly paradise of the Moorish 
kings ? How my spirit is stirred within me ! 
How my heart is lifted up ! How my thoughts 
are rapt away in the visions of other days ! 

AvCy Maria purissima ! It is midnight. 
The bell has tolled the hour from the watch- 
tower of the Alhambra ; and the silent street 



The PilgrinCs Breviary 291 

echoes only to the watchman's cry, Ave, Ma- 
ria picrissima I I am alone in my chamber, — 
sleepless, — spell-bound by the genius of the 
place, — entranced by the beauty of the star- 
lit night. As I gaze from my window, a sud- 
den radiance brightens in the east. It is the 
moon, rising behind the Alham.bra. I can 
faintly discern the dusky and indistinct out- 
line of a massive tower, standing amid the un- 
certain twilight, like a gigantic shadow. It 
changes with the rising moon, as a palace in 
the clouds, and other towers and battlements 
arise, — every moment more distinct, more pal- 
pable, till now they stand between me and the 
sky, with a sharp outline, distant, and yet so 
near that I seem to sit within their shadow. 

Majestic spirit of the night, I recognize 
thee ! Thou hast conjured up this glorious vis- 
ion for thy votary. Thou hast baptized me 
with thy baptism. Thou hast nourished my 
soul with fervent thoughts and holy aspira- 
tions, and ardent longings after the beautiful 
and the true. Majestic spirit of the past, I 
recognize thee ! Thou hast bid the shadow 
go back for me upon the dial-plate of time. 
Thou hast taught me to read in thee the pres- 
ent and the future, — a revelation of man's 



292 The Pilgrim's Breviary 

destiny on earth. Thou hast taught me to 
see in thee the principle that unfolds itself 
from century to century in the progress of our 
race, — the germ in whose bosom lie enfolded 
the bud, the leaf, the tree. Generations per- 
ish, like the leaves of the forest, passing away 
when their mission is completed ; but at each 
succeeding spring, broader and higher spreads 
the human mind unto its perfect stature, unto 
the fulfilment of its destiny, unto the perfec- 
tion of its nature. And in these high revela- 
tions, thou hast taught me more, — thou hast 
taught me to feel that I, too, weak, humble, 
and unknown, feeble of purpose and irreso^ 
lute of good, have something to accomplish 
upon earth, — like the falling leaf, like the 
passing wind, like the drop of rain. O glo- 
rious thought ! that lifts me above the power 
of time and chance, and tells me that I cannot 
pass away, and leave no mark of my existence. 
I may not know the purpose of my being, — 
the end for which an all-wise Providence cre- 
ated me as I am, and placed me where I am ; 
but I do know — for in such things faith is 
knowledge — that my being has a purpose in 
the omniscience of my Creator, and that all 
my actions tend to the completion, to the full 



The PilgrhfUs Breviary 293 

accomplishment of that purpose. Is this fatal- 
ity ? No. I feel that I am free, though an in- 
finite and invisible power overrules me. Man 
proposes, and God disposes. This is one of 
the many mysteries in our being which hu- 
man reason cannot find out by searching. 

Yonder towers, that stand so huge and mas- 
sive in the midnight air, the work of human 
hands that have long since forgotten their cun- 
ning in the grave, and once the home of hu- 
man beings immortal as ourselves, and filled 
like us with hopes and fears, and powers of 
good and ill, — are lasting memorials of their 
builders ; inanimate material forms, yet living 
with the impress of a creative mind. These 
are landmarks of other times. Thus from the 
distant past the history of the human race 
is telegraphed from generation to generation, 
through the present to all succeeding ages. 
These are manifestations of the human mind 
at a remote period of its history, and among 
a people who came from another clime, — the 
children of the desert. Their mission is ac- 
complished, and they are gone; yet leaving 
behind them a thousand records of themselves 
and of their ministry, not as yet fully manifest, 
but " seen through a glass darkly," dimly shad- 



294 ^^^ Pilgrinis Breviary 

owed forth in the language, and character, and 
manners, and history of the nation, that was by 
turns the conquered and the conquering. The 
Goth sat at the Arab's feet ; and athwart the 
cloud and storm of war, streamed the light of 
Oriental learning upon the Western world, — 

** As when the autumnal sun, 
Through travelling rain and mist, 
Shines on the evening hills." 



This morning I visited the Alhambra ; an 
enchanted palace, whose exquisite beauty baf- 
fles the power of language to describe. Its 
outlines may be drawn, — its halls and gal- 
leries, its court-yards and its fountains, num- 
bered ; but what skilful limner shall portray 
in words its curious architecture, the grotesque 
ornaments, the quaint devices, the rich tracery 
of the walls, the ceilings inlaid with pearl and 
tortoise-shell } what language paint the magic 
hues of light and shade, the shimmer of the 
sunbeam as it falls upon the marble pavement, 
and the brilliant panels inlaid with many-col- 
ored stones } Vague recollections fill my 
mind, — images dazzling but undefined, like 
the memory of a gorgeous dream. They 



The Pilgrim's Breviary 295 

crowd my brain confusedly, but they will 
not stay ; they change and mingle, like the 
tremulous sunshine on the wave, till imagi- 
nation itself IS dazzled, — bewildered, — over- 
powered ! 

What most arrests the stranger's foot within 
the walls of the Alhambra is the refinement of 
luxury which he sees at every step. He lin- 
gers in the deserted bath, — he pauses to gaze 
upon the now vacant saloon, where, stretched 
upon his gilded couch, the effeminate monarch 
of the East was wooed to sleep by softly-breath- 
ing music. What more delightful than this 
secluded garden, green with the leaf of the 
myrtle and the orange, and freshened with 
the gush of fountains, beside whose basin 
the nightingale still wooes the blushing rose } 
What more fanciful, more exquisite, more like 
a creation of Oriental magic, than the lofty 
tower of the Tocador, — its airy sculpture re- 
sembling the fretwork of wintry frost, and 
its windows overlooking the romantic valley 
of the Darro ; and the city, with its gar- 
dens, domes, and spires, far, far below } Cool 
through this lattice comes the summer wind 
from the icy summits of the Sierra Nevada. 
Softly in yonder fountain falls the crystal wa- 



296 The Pilgrim! s Breviary 

ter, dripping from its marble vase with never- 
ceasing sound. On every side comes up the 
fragrance of a thousand flowers, the murmur 
of innumerable leaves ; and overhead is a sky 
where not a vapor floats, — as soft, and blue, 
and radiant as the eye of childhood ! 

Such is the Alhambra of Granada ; a for- 
tress, — a palace, — an earthly paradise, — a 
ruin, wonderful in its fallen greatness ! 



THE JOURNEY INTO ITALY 



What I catch is at present only sketch-ways, as it were ; but I prepare 
myself betimes for the Italian journey. 

Goethe's Faust. 



ON the afternoon of the 15th of Decem- 
ber, in the year of grace one thousand 
eight hundred and twenty-seven, I left Mar- 
seilles for Genoa, taking the sea-shore road 
through Toulon, Draguignan, and Nice. This 
journey is written in my memory with a sun- 
beam. We were a company whom chance had 
thrown together, — different in ages, humors, 
and pursuits, — and yet so merrily the days 
went by, in sunshine, wind, or rain, that me- 
thinks some lucky star must have ruled the 
hour that brought us five so auspiciously 
together. But where is now that merry com- 
pany ? One sleeps in his youthful grave ; two 
sit in their fatherland, and ''coin their brain 
for their daily bread " ; and the others, — 
where are they ? If still among the living, I 
beg them to remember in their prayers the 
humble historian of their journey into Italy. 
13* 



298 The yourney into Italy 

At Toulon we took a private carriage in or- 
der to pursue our journey more leisurely and 
more at ease. I well remember the strange, 
outlandish vehicle, and our vetturino Joseph, 
with his blouse, his short-stemmed pipe, his 
limping gait, his comical phiz, and the lowland 
dialect his mother taught him at Avignon. 
Every scene, every incident of the journey is 
now before me as if written in a book. The 
sunny landscapes of the Var, — the peasant 
girls, with their broad-brimmed hats of straw, 

— the inn at Draguignan, with its painting of 
a lady on horseback, underwritten in French 
and English, " Une jeime dame a la pro'tneiiadey 

— A young ladi taking a walk," — the mould- 
ering arches of the Roman aqueducts at Fr6- 
jus, standing in the dim twilight of morning 
like shadowy apparitions of the past, — the 
wooded bridge across the Var, — the glorious 
amphitheatre of hills that half encircle Nice, 

— the midnight scene at the village inn of Mo- 
naco, — the mountain-road overhanging the sea 
at a dizzy height, and its long, dark passages 
cut through the solid rock, — the tumbling 
mountain-torrent, — and a fortress perched on 
a jutting spur of the Alps ; these, and a thou- 
sand varied scenes and landscapes of this jour- 



The Journey into Italy 299 

ney, rise before me, as if still visible to the 
eye of sense, and not to that of memory only. 
And yet I will not venture upon a minute de- 
scription of them. I have not colors bright 
enough for such landscapes ; and besides, even 
the most determined lovers of the picturesque 
grow weary of long descriptions ; though, as 
the French guide-book says of these scenes, 
" Tout cela fait sans doute un spectacle admi- 
rable!'' 



On the tenth day of our journey, we 
reached Genoa, the city of palaces, — the su- 
perb city. The writer of an old book, called 
" Time's Storehouse,'' thus poetically describes 
its situation : — " This cittie is most proudly 
built upon the seacoast and the downefall of 
the Appenines, at the foot of a mountaine ; 
even as if she were descended downe the 
mount, and come to repose herselfe uppon a 
plaine." 

It was Christmas eve, — a glorious night ! 
I stood at midnight on the wide terrace of 
our hotel, which overlooks the sea, and, gaz- 
ing on the tiny and crisping waves that broke 
in pearly light beneath the moon, sent back my 
wandering thoughts far over the sea, to a dis- 



300 The Journey into Italy 

tant home. The jangling music of church- 
bells aroused me from my dream. It was the 
sound of jubilee at the approaching festival of 
the Nativity, and summoned alike the pious 
devotee, the curious stranger, and the gallant 
lover to the church of the Annunziata. 

I descended from the terrace, and, groping 
my way through one of the dark and narrow 
lanes which intersect the city in all directions, 
soon found myself in the Strada Nuova. The 
long line of palaces lay half in shadow, half in 
light, stretching before me in magical perspec- 
tive, like the long vapory opening of a cloud 
in the summer sky. Following the various 
groups that were passing onward towards the 
public square, I entered the church, where 
midnight mass was to be chanted. A daz- 
zling blaze of light from the high altar shone 
upon the red marble columns which support 
the roof, and fell with a solemn effect upon 
the kneeling crowd that filled the body of the 
church. All beyond was in darkness ; and 
from that darkness at intervals burst forth 
the deep voice of the organ and the chanting 
of the choir, filling the soul with solemnity 
and awe. And yet, among that prostrate 
crowds how many had been drawn thither by 



The yourney into Italy 301 

unworthy motives, — motives even more un- 
worthy than mere idle curiosity ! How many 
sinful purposes arose in souls unpurified, and 
mocked at the bended knee ! How many a 
heart beat wild with earthly passion, while 
the unconscious lip repeated the accustomed 
prayer ! Immortal spirit ! canst thou so heed- 
lessly resist the imploring voice that calls thee 
from thine errors and pollutions ? Is not the 
long day long enough, is not the wide world 
wide enough, has not society frivolity enough 
for thee, that thou shouldst seek out this mid- 
night hour, this holy place, this solemn sacri- 
fice, to add irreverence to thy folly ? 

In the shadow of a column stood a young 
man wrapped in a cloak, earnestly conversing 
in a low whisper with a female figure, so 
veiled as to hide her face from the eyes of 
all but her companion. At length they sepa- 
rated. The young man continued leaning 
against the column, and the girl, gliding si- 
lently along the dimly lighted aisle, mingled 
with the crowd, and threw herself upon her 
knees. Beware, poor girl, thought I, lest thy 
gentle nature prove thy undoing ! Perhaps, 
alas, thou art already undone ! And I almost 
heard the evil spirit whisper, as in the Faust, 



302 The journey into Italy 

" How different was it with thee, Margaret, 
when, still full of innocence, thou earnest to 
the altar here, — out of the well-worn little 
book lispedst prayers, half child-sport, half 
God in the heart ! Margaret, where is thy 
head ? What crime in thy heart ! " 

The city of Genoa is magnificent in parts, 
but not as a whole. The houses are high, and 
the streets in general so narrow that in many 
of them you may almost step across from side 
to side. They are built to receive the cool sea- 
breeze, and shut out the burning sun. Only 
three of them — if my memory serves me — 
are wide enough to admit the passage of car- 
riages ; and these three form but one contin- 
uous street, — the street of palaces. They are 
the Strada Nuova, the Strada Novissima, and 
the Strada Balbi, which connect the Piazza 
Amorosa with the Piazza dell' Annunziata. 
These palaces, the Doria, the Durazzo, the 
Ducal Palace, and others of less magnifi- 
cence, — with their vast halls, their marble 
staircases, vestibules, and terraces, and the as- 
pect of splendor and munificence they wear, 
■ — have given this commercial city the title 
of Genoa the Superb. And, as if to humble 
her pride, some envious rival among the Ital- 



The yourney into Italy 303 

ian cities has launched at her a biting sar- 
casm in the well known proverb, ^^Mare senza 
pescCy Momini senza fede^ e ^doHne senza vergo- 
gnal' — A sea without fish, men without faith, 
and women without shame ! 



The road from Genoa to Lucca strong- 
ly resembles that from Nice to Genoa. It 
runs along the seaboard, now dipping to the 
water's edge, and now climbing the zigzag 
mountain-pass, with toppling crags, and yawn- 
ing chasms, and verdant terraces of vines 
and olive-trees. Many a sublime and many 
a picturesque landscape catches the travel- 
ler's eye, now almost weary with gazing ; and 
still brightly painted upon my mind lies a 
calm evening scene on the borders of the 
Gulf of Spezia, with its broad sheet of crys- 
tal water, — the blue-tinted hills that form its 
oval basin, — the crimson sky above, and its 
bright reflection, — 

** Where it lay- 
Deep bosomed in the still and quiet bay, 
The sea reflecting ail that glowed above, 
Till a new sky, softer but not so gay, 
Arched in its bosom, trembled like a dove." 



304 The Journey into Italy 

Pisa, the melancholy city, with its Leaning 
Tower, its Campo Santo, itd bronze-gated ca- 
thedral, and its gloomy palaces, — Florence 
the Fair, with its magnificent Duomo, its 
gallery of ancienf^art, its gardens, its gay so- 
ciety, and its delightful environs, — Fiesole, 
Camaldoli, Vallombrosa, and the luxuriant 
Val d' Arno ; — these have been so often and 
so beautifully described by others, that I 
need not repeat the twice-told tale. 



At Florence I took lodgings in a house which 
looks upon the Piazza Novella. In front of my 
windows was the venerable church of Santa Ma- 
ria Novella, in whose gloomy aisles Boccaccio 
has placed the opening scene of his Decame- 
rone. There, when the plague was raging in 
the city, one Tuesday morning, after mass, the 
'* seven ladies, young and fair," held counsel 
together, and resolved to leave the infected 
city, and flee to their rural villas in the envi- 
rons, where they might " hear the birds sing, 
and see the green hills, and the plains, and the 
fields covered with grain and undulating like 
the sea, and trees of species manifold." 

In the Florentine museum is a representa- 



The Journey into Italy 305 

tion in wax of some of the appalling scenes of 
the plague which desolated this city about the 
middle of the fourteenth century, and which 
Boccaccio has described with such simplicity 
and power in the introduction of his Decame- 
rone. It is the work of a Sicilian artist, by 
the name of Zumbo. He must have been a 
man of the most gloomy and saturnine imagi- 
nation, and more akin to the worm than most 
of us, thus to have revelled night and day in 
the hideous mysteries of death, corruption, and 
the charnel-house. It is strange how this rep- 
resentation haunts one. It is like a dream of 
the sepulchre, with its loathsome corses, with 
" the blackening, the swelling, the bursting of 
the trunk, — the worm, the rat, and the taran- 
tula at work." You breathe more freely as 
you step out into the open air again ; and 
when the bright sunshine and the crowded 
busy streets next meet your eye, you are 
ready to ask, Is this indeed a representation 
of reality } Can this pure air have been laden 
with pestilence } Can this gay city have ever 
been a city of the plague t 

The work of the Sicilian artist is admirable 
as a piece of art ; the description of the Flo- 
rentine prose-poet equally admirable as a piece 



3o6 T*he journey into Italy 

of eloquence. " How many vast palaces," he 
exclaims, " how many beautiiu/ houses, how 
many noble dwellings, aforetime filled with 
lords and ladies and trains of servants, were 
now untenanted even by the lowest menial ! 
How many memorable families, how many 
ample heritages, how many renowned posses- 
sions, were left without an heir ! How many 
valiant men, how many beautiful women, how 
many gentle youths, breakfasted in the morn- 
ing with their relatives, companions, and 
friends, and, when the evening came, supped 
with their ancestors in the other world ! " 



I MET with an odd character at Florence, — 
a complete humorist. He was an Englishman 
of some forty years of age, with a round, good- 
humored countenance, and a nose that wore 
the livery of good company. He was making 
the grand tour through France and Italy, and 
home again by the way of the Tyrol and the 
Rhine. He travelled post, with a double-bar- 
relled gun, two pairs of pistols, and a vio- 
lin without a bow. He had been in Rome 
without seeing St. Peter's, — he did not care 
about it ; he had seen St. Paul's in Londoa 



The yourney into Italy 307 

He had been in Naples without visiting Pom- 
peii, because " they told him it was hardly 
worth seeing, — nothing but a parcel of dark 
streets and old walls." The principal object 
he seemed to have in view was to complete 
the grand tour. 

I afterward met with his counterpart in a 
countryman of my own, who made it a point 
to see everything which was mentioned in 
the guide-books ; and boasted how muph he 
could accomplish in a day. He would de- 
spatch a city in an incredibly short space. of 
time. A Roman aqueduct, a Gothic cathedral, 
two or three modern ^churches, and an ancient 
ruin or so, were only a breakfast for him. 
Nothing came amiss ; not a stone was left un- 
turned. A city was like a Chinese picture to 
him, — it had no perspective. Every object 
seemed of equal magnitude and importance. 
He saw them all ; they were all wonderful. 

" Life is short, and art is long," says Hippo- 
crates ; yet spare me from thus travelling with 
the speed of thought, and trotting, from day- 
light until dark, at the heels of a cicerone, with 
an umbrella in one hand, and a guide-book 
and plan of the city in the other. 



3o8 The journey into Italy 

I COPIED the following singular inscription 
from a tombstone in the Protestant cemetery 
at Leghorn. It is the epitaph of a lady, writ- 
ten by herself, and engraven upon her tomb at 
her own request. 

" Under this stone lies the victim of sorrow. 
Fly, wandering stranger, from her mouldering dust, 
Lest the rude wind, conveying a particle thereof unto thee,. 
Should communicate that venom melancholy 
That has destroyed the strongest frame and liveliest spirit. 
With^oy of heart has she resigned her breath, 
A living martyr to sensibility ! " 

How inferior in true pathos is this inscription 
to one in the cemetery of Bologna ; — 

** Lucrezia Picini 
Implora etema pace." 

Lucretia Picini implores eternal peace ! 

From Florence to Rome I travelled with 
a vetturino, by the way of Siena. We were 
six days upon the road, and, like Peter Rugg 
in the story-book, were followed constantly by 
clouds and rain. At times, the sun, not all- 
forgetful of the world, peeped from beneath 
his cowl of mist, and kissed the swarthy face of 
his beloved land ; and then, like an anchorite, 
withdrew again from earth, and gave him- 
self to heaven. Day after day the mist and 



The Journey into Italy 309 

the rain were my fellow-travellers ; and as I 
sat wrapped in the thick folds of my Spanish 
cloak, and looked out upon the misty land- 
scape and the leaden sky, I was continually 
saying • to myself, " Can this be Italy ? " and 
smiling at the untravelled credulity of those 
who, amid the storms of a northern winter, 
give way to the illusions of fancy, and dream 
of Italy as a sunny land, where no wintry tem- 
pest beats, and where, even in January, the pale 
invalid may go about without his umbrella, or 
his India-rubber walk-in-the-waters. 

Notwithstanding all this, with the help of 
a good constitution and a thick pair of boots, 
I contrived to see all that was to be seen upon 
the road. I walked down the long hillside at 
San Lorenzo, and along the border of the 
Lake of Bolsena, which, veiled in the driving 
mist, stretched like an inland sea beyond my 
ken; and through the sacred forest of oak, 
held in superstitious reverence by the peasant, 
and inviolate from his axe. I passed a night 
at Montefiascone, renowned for a delicate Mus- 
cat wine, which bears the name of Est, and 
made a midnight pilgrimage to the tomb of 
the Bishop John Defoucris, who died a martyr 
to his love of this wine of Montefiascone. 



3IO The yourney into Italy 

** Propter nimium Est, Est, Est, 
Dominus meus mortuus est." 

A marble slab in the pavement, worn by the 
footsteps of pilgrims like myself, covers the 
dominie's ashes. There is a rud': figure carved 
upon- it, at whose feet I traced out the cabalis- 
tic words, " Est, Est, Est." The remainder of 
the inscription was illegible by the flickering 
light of the sexton's lantern. 

At Baccano I first caught sight of the dome 
of Saint Peter's. We had entered the deso- 
late Campagna ; we passed the tomb of Nero, 
— we approached the Eternal City ; but no 
sound of active life, no thronging crowds, no 
hum of busy men, announced that we^were 
near the gates of Rome. All was silence, soli- 
tude, and desolation. 



ROME IN MIDSUMMER 



She who tamed the world seemed to tame herself at last, and, falling 
under her own weight, grew to be a prey to Time, who with his iron teeth 
consumes all bodies at last, making all things, both animate and inanimate, 
which have their being under that changeliiig, the moon, to be subject 
unto corruption and desolation. 

Howell's Signorie of Venice. 



THE masks and mummeries of Carnival 
are over ; the imposing ceremonies of 
Holy Week have become a tale of the times of 
old ; the illumination of St. Peter s and the 
Girandola are no longer the theme of gentle 
and simple ; and finally, the barbarians of the 
North have retreated from the gates of Rome, 
and left the Eternal City silent and deserted. 
The cicerone stands at the corner of the 
street with his hands in his pockets ; the artist 
has shut himself up in his studio to muse upon 
antiquity ; and the idle facchino lounges in 
the market-place, and plays at mora by the 
fountain. Midsummer has come ; and you 
may now hire a palace for what, a few weeks 
ago, would hardly have paid your night's lodg- 
ing in its garret. 



312 Rome in Midsu^nmer 

I am still lingering in Rome, — a student, 
not an artist, — and have taken lodgings in the 
Piazza Navona, the very heart of the city, and 
one of the largest and most magnificent 
squares of modern Rome. It occupies the site 
of the ancient amphitheatre of Alexander Sev- 
erus ; and the churches, palaces, and shops 
that now surround it are built upon the old 
foundations of the amphitheatre. At each 
extremity of the square stands a fountain ; the 
one with a simple jet of crystal water, the oth- 
er with a triton holding a dolphin by the tail. 
In the centre rises a nobler work of art; a 
fountain with a marble basin more than two 
hundred feet in circumference. From the 
midst uprises a huge rock pierced with grot- 
toes, wherein sit a rampant sea-horse, and a 
lion couchant. On the sides of the rock are 
four colossal statues, representing the four 
principal rivers of the world ; and from its 
summit, forty feet from the basin below, shoots 
up an obelisk of red granite, covered with hie- 
roglyphics, and fifty feet in height, — a relic of 
the amphitheatre of Caracalla. 

In this quarter of the city I have domicili- 
ated myself, in a family of whose many kind- 
nesses I shall always retain the most lively 



Rome in Midsummer 313 

and grateful remembrance. My mornings are 
spent in visiting the wonders of Rome, in 
studying the miracles of ancient and modern 
art, or in reading at the public libraries. We 
breakfast at noon, and dine at eight in the 
evening. After dinner comes the conversa- 
zione, enlivened with music, and the meeting 
of travellers, artists, and literary men from 
every quarter of the globe. At midnight, 
when the crowd is gone, I retire to my cham- 
ber, and, poring over the gloomy pages of 
Dante, or "Bandello's laughing tale," protract 
my nightly vigil till the morning star is in the 
sky. 

Our windows look out upon the square, 
which circumstance is a source of infinite en- 
joyment to me. Directly in front, with its fan- 
tastic belfries and swelling dome, rises the 
church of St. Agnes ; and sitting by the open 
window, I note the busy scene below, enjoy 
the cool air of morning and evening, and even 
feel the freshness of the fountain, as its waters 
leap in mimic cascades down the sides of the 
rock. 



The Piazza Navona is the chief marlcet^ 
place of Rome ; and on market-days is filled 



u 



314 Rome in Midsummer 

with a noisy crowd of the Roman populace, 
and the peasantry from the neighboring vil- 
lages of Albano and Frascati. At such times 
the square presents an animated and curious 
scene. The gayly-decked stalls, — the piles of 
fruits and vegetables, — the pyramids of flow- 
ers, — the various costumes of the peasantry, 
— the constant movement of the vast, fluctuat- 
ing crowd, and the deafening clamor of their 
discordant voices, that rise louder than the 
roar of the loud ocean, — all this is better 
than a play to me, and gives me amusement 
when naught else has power to amuse. 

Every Saturday afternoon in the sultry 
month of August, this spacious square is con- 
verted into a lake, by stopping the conduit- 
pipes which carry off the water of the foun- 
tains. Vehicles of every description, axle- 
deep, drive to and fro across the mimic lake ; 
a dense crowd gathers around its margin, and 
a thousand tricks excite the loud laughter of 
the idle populace. Here is a fellow groping 
with a stick after his seafaring hat ; there an- 
other splashing in the water in pursuit of a 
mischievous spaniel, who is swimming away 
with his shoe ; while from a neighboring bal- 
cony a noisy burst of military music fills the 



Rome in Midsummer 315 

air, and gives fresh animation to the scene of 
mirth. This is one of the popular festivals of 
midsummer in Rome, and the merriest of them 
all. It is a kind of carnival unmasked ; and 
many a popular bard, many a Poeta di dozzina, 
invokes this day the plebeian Muse of the mar- 
ket-place to sing in high-sounding rhyme, " // 
Lago di Piazza Navona!' 

I have before me one of these sublime effu- 
sions. It describes the square, — the crowd, 
— the rattling carriages, — the lake, — the 
fountain, raised by " the superhuman genius of 
Bernini," — the lion, — the sea-horse, and the 
triton grasping the dolphin s tail. " Half the 
grand square,'* thus sings the poet, "where 
Rome with food is satiate, was changed into a 
lake, around whose margin stood the Roman 
people, pleased with soft idleness and merry 
holiday, like birds upon the margin of a limpid 
brook. Up and down drove car and chariot ; 
and the women trembled for fear of the deep 
water ; though merry were the young, and 
well I ween, had they been borne away to 
unknown shores by the bull that bore away 
Europa, they would neither have wept nor 
screamed ! " 



3i6 Rome in Midsummer 

On the eastern slope of the Janiculum, now 
called, from its yellow sands, Montorio, or the 
Golden Mountain, stands the fountain of Ac- 
qua Paola, the largest and most abundant of 
the Roman fountains. It is a small Ionic 
temple, with six columns of reddish granite in 
front, a spacious hall and chambers within, 
and a garden with a terrace in the rear. Be- 
neath the pavement, a torrent * of water from 
the ancient aqueducts of Trajan, and from the 
lakes of Bracciano and Martignano, leaps forth 
in three beautiful cascades, and from the over- 
flowing basin rushes down the hillside to turn 
the busy wheels of a dozen mills. 

The key of this little fairy palace is in our 
hands, and as often as once a week we pass 
the day there, amid the odor of its flowers, the 
rushing sound of its waters, and the enchant- 
ments of poetry and music. How pleasantly 
the sultry hours steal by! Cool comes the 
summer wind from the Tiber's mouth at Ostia. 
Above us is a sky without a cloud ; beneath 
us the magnificent panorama of Rome and the 
Campagna, bounded by the Abruzzi and the 
sea. Glorious scene ! one glance at thee 
would move the dullest soul, — one glance can 
melt the painter and the poet into tears ! 



Rome in Midsummer 317 

In the immediate neighborhood of the foun- 
tain are many objects worthy of the stranger's 
notice. A bowshot down the hillside towards 
the city stands the convent of San Pietro in 
Montorio ; and in the cloister of this convent 
is a small, round Doric temple, built upon the 
spot which an ancient tradition points out as 
the scene of St. Peter's martyrdom. In the 
opposite direction the road leads you over the 
shoulder of the hill, and out through the city- 
gate to gardens and villas beyond. Passing 
beneath a lofty arch of Trajan s aqueduct, an 
ornamented gateway on the left admits you to 
the Villa Pamfili-Doria, built on the western 
declivity of the hill. This is the largest and 
most magnificent of the numerous villas that 
crowd the immediate environs of Rome. Its 
spacious terraces, its marble statues, its wood- 
lands and green alleys, its lake and waterfalls 
and fountains, give it an air of courtly splendor 
and of rural beauty, which realizes the beau 
ideal of a suburban villa. 

This is our favorite resort, when we have 
passed the day at the fountain, and the after- 
noon shadows begin to fall. There we sit on 
the broad marble steps of the terrace, gaze 
upon the varied landscape stretching to the 



3i8 Rome in Midsummer 

misty sea, or ramble beneath the leafy dome 
of the woodland and along the margin of the 
lake, 

** And drop a pebble to see it sink 
Down in those depths so calm and cool. " 

O, did we but know when we are happy! 
Could the restless, feverish, ambitious heart be 
still, but for a moment still, and yield itself, 
without one farther-aspiring throb, to its en- 
joyment, — then were I happy, — yes, thrice 
happy ! But no ; this fluttering, struggling, 
and imprisoned spirit beats the bars of its 
golden cage, — disdains the silken fetter; it 
will not close its eye and fold its wings ; as if 
time were not swift enough, its swifter thoughts 
outstrip his rapid flight, and onward, onward 
do they wing their way to the distant moun- 
tains, to the fleeting clouds of the future ; and 
yet I know, that ere long, weary, and wayworn, 
and disappointed, they shall return to nestle 
in the bosom of the past ! 

This day, also, I have passed at Acqua Pa- 
ola. From the garden terrace I watched the 
setting sun, as, wrapt in golden vapor, he 
passed to other climes. A friend from my 
native land was with me ; and as we spake of 
home, a liquid star stood trembhng like a tear 



Rome in Midstimmer 319 

upon the closing eyelid of the day. Which of 
us wrote these lines with a pencil upon the 
cover of Julia's Corinna ? 

Bright star ! whose soft, familiar ray, 
In colder climes and gloomier skies, 

I Ve watched so oft when closing day- 
Had tinged the west with crimson dyes ; 

Perhaps to-night some friend I love, 
Beyond the deep, the distant sea. 

Will gaze upon thy path above, 

And give one lingering thought to me. 



ToRQUATi Tasso ossa hic jacent, — Here 
lie the bones of Torquato Tasso, — is the sim- 
ple inscription upon the poet's tomb, in the 
church of St. Onofrio. Many a pilgrimage is 
made to this grave. Many a bard from distant 
lands comes to visit the spot, — and, as he 
paces the secluded cloisters of the convent 
where the poet died, and where his ashes rest, 
muses on the sad vicissitudes of his life, and 
breathes a prayer for the peace of his soul. 
He sleeps midway between his cradle at Sor- 
rento and his dungeon at Ferrara. 

The monastery of St. Onofrio stands on the 
Janiculum, overlooking the Tiber and the city 
of Rome ; and in the distance rise the towers 



320 Rome in Midstcmmer 

of the Roman Capitol, where, after long years 
of sickness, sorrow, and imprisonment, the lau- 
rel crown was prepared for the great epic poet 
of Italy. The chamber in which Tasso died is 
still shown to the curious traveller ; and the 
tree in the garden, under whose shade he 
loved to sit. The feelings of the dying man, 
as he reposed in this retirement, are not the 
vague conjectures of poetic revery. He has 
himself recorded them in a letter which he 
wrote to his friend Antonio Constantini, a few 
days only before his dissolution. These are 
his melancholy words : — 

" What will my friend Antonio say, when he 
hears the death of Tasso ? Erelong, I think, 
the news will reach him ; for I feel that the 
end of my life is near ; being able to find no 
remedy for this wearisome indisposition which 
is superadded to my customary infirmities, and 
by which, as by a rapid torrent, I see myself 
swept away, without a hand to save. It is no 
longer time to speak of my unyielding destiny, 
not to say the ingratitude of the world, which 
has longed even for the victory of driving me 
a beggar to my grave ; while I thought that 
the glory which, in spite of those who will it 
not, this age shall receive from my writings 



Rome in Midsicmmer 321 

was not to leave me thus without reward. I 
have come to this monastery of St. Onofrio, 
not only because the air is commended by 
physicians as more salubrious than in any oth- 
er part of Rome, but that I may, as it were, 
commence, in this high place, and in the con- 
versation of these devout fathers, my conversa- 
tion in heaven. Pray God for me ; and be as- 
sured that as I have loved and honored you in 
this present life,, so in that other and more real 
life will I do for you all that belongs to charity 
unfeigned and true. And to the divine mercy 
I commend both you and myself" 



The modern Romans are a very devout 
people. The Princess Doria washes the pil- 
grims' feet in Holy Week ; every evening, foul 
or fair, the whole year round, there is a rosary 
sung before an image of the Virgin, within a 
stone's throw of my window ; and the young 
ladies write letters to St. Louis Gonzaga, who 
in all paintings and sculpture is represented as 
young and angelically beautiful. I saw a large 
pile of these letters a few weeks ago in Gon- 
zaga's chapel, at the church of St. Ignatius. 
They were lying at the foot of the altar, pret- 
14* u 



322 Rome in Midsummer 

tily written on smooth paper, and tied with 
silken ribands of various colors. Leaning 
over the marble balustrade, I read the follow- 
ing superscription upon one of them : — " AW 
Angelico Giovane S, Ltiigi GonzagUy Paradiso, 
— To the angelic youth St. Louis Gonza- 
ga. Paradise." A soldier, with a musket, kept 
guard over this treasure ; and I had the audaci- 
ty to ask him at what hour the mail went out ; 
for which heretical impertinence he cocked his 
mustache at me with the most savage look im- 
aginable, as much as to say, " Get thee 
gone " : — 

"Andate, 
Niente pigliate, 
E mai ritomate." 

The modern Romans are likewise strongly 
given to amusements of every description. 
Panern et circeiises, says the Latin satirist, 
when chiding the degraded propensities of his 
countrymen ; Panern et circenses^ — they are 
content with bread and the sports of the cir- 
cus. The same may be said at the present 
day. Even in this hot weather, when the 
shops are shut at noon, and the fat priests 
waddle about the streets with fans in their 
hands, the people crowd to the Mausoleum of 



Rome in Midsummer 32 



Augustus, to be choked with the smoke of 
fireworks, and see deformed and humpback 
dwarfs tumbled into the dirt by the masked 
horns of young bullocks. What a refined 
amusement for the inhabitants of "pompous 
and holy Rome ! " 



The Sirocco prevails to-day, — a hot wind 
from the burning sands of Africa, that bathes 
its wings in the sea, and comes laden with fogs 
and vapors to the shores of Italy. It is op- 
pressive and dispiriting, and quite unmans one, 
like the dog-days of the North. There is a 
scrap of an old English song running in my 
mind, in which the poet calls it a cool wind ; 
though ten to one I misquote. 

** When the cool Sirocco blows, 

And daws and pies and rooks and crows 
Sit and curse the wintry snows. 
Then give me ale ! " 

I should think that stark English beer 
might have a potent charm against the pow- 
ers of the foul fiend that rides this steaming, 
reeking wind. A flask of Montefiascone, or a 
bottle of Lacrima Christi does very well. 



324 Rome in Mihsummer 

Beggars all, — beggars all ! The Papal city 
is full of them ; and they hold you by the but- 
ton through the whole calendar of saints. 
You cannot choose but hear. I met an old 
woman yesterday, who pierced my ear with 
this alluring petition : — 

^^ Ah signore ! Qualche piccola cosa^ per ca- 
rita ! Vi dirb la buona ventura ! C k tma bella 
sig7torma, che vi ama molto ! Per il Sac7V Sa- 
cramento ! Per la Madonna ! " 

Which being interpreted, is, " Ah, Sir, a tri- 
fle, for charity's sake ! I will tell your fortune 
for you ! There is a beautiful young lady who 
loves you well! For the Holy Sacrament, — 
for the Madonna's sake ! " 

Who could resist such an appeal ? 

I made a laughable mistake this morning in 
giving alms. A man stood on the shady side 
of the street with his hat in his hand, and as I 
passed he gave me a piteous look, though he 
said nothing.. He had such a woe-begone face, 
and such a threadbare coat, that I at once took 
him for one of those mendicants who bear the 
title of poveri vergognosi, — bashful beggars ; 
persons whom pinching want compels to re- 
ceive the stranger's charity, though pride re- 
strains them from asking it. Moved with com- 



Rome in Midsummer 325 

passion, I threw into the hat the little I had to 
give ; when, instead of thanking me with a 
blessing, my man with the threadbare coat 
showered upon me the most sonorous maledic- 
tions of his native tongue, and, emptying his 
greasy hat upon the pavement, drew it down 
over his ears with both hands, and stalked 
away with all the dignity of a Roman senator 
in the best days of the republic, -^- to the infi- 
nite amusement of a green-grocer, who stood 
at his shop-door bursting with laughter. No 
time was given me for an apology ; but I re- 
solved to be for the future more discriminating 
in my charities, and not to take for a beggar 
every poor gentleman who chose to stand in 
the shade with his hat in his hand on a hof 
summer's day. 



There is an old fellow who hawks"pious^ le- 
gends and the lives of saints through the 
streets of Rome, with a sharp, cracked voice, 
that knows no pause nor division in the sen- 
tences it utters. I just heard him cry at a 
breath : — 

^^ La Vita di San Giuseppe quel fidel servitof* 
di Dio santo e maraviglioso mezzo bajocco, — 



326 Rome in Midsttmmer 

The Life of St. Joseph that faithful servant oi 
God holy and wonderful ha'penny ! " 

This is the way with some people ; everything 
helter-skelter, — heads and tails, — prices cur- 
rent and the lives of saints ! 



It has been a rainy day, — a day of gloom. 
The church-bells never rang in my ears with 
so melancholy a sound ; and this afternoon I 
saw a mournful scene, which still haunts my 
imagination. It was the funeral of a monk. 
I was drawn to the window by the solemn 
chant, as the procession came from a neighbor- 
ing street and crossed the square. First came 
a long train of priests, clad in black, and bear- 
ing in their hands large waxen tapers, which 
flared in every gust of wind, and were now and 
then extinguished by the rain. The bier fol- 
lowed, borne on the shoulders of four bare- 
footed Carmelites ; and upon it, ghastly and 
grim, lay the body of the dead monk, clad in 
his long gray kirtle, with the twisted cord 
about his waist. Not even a shroud was thrown 
over him. His head and feet were bare, and 
his hands were placed upon his bosom, palm 
to palm, i:;^ the attitude of prayer. His face 



Rome in Midsummer 327 

was emaciated, and of a livid hue ; his eyes 
unclosed ; and at every movement of the bier, 
his head nodded to and fro, with an unearthly 
and hideous aspect. Behind walked the mo- 
nastic brotherhood, a long and melancholy pro- 
cession, with their cowls thrown back, and 
their eyes cast upon the ground ; and last of 
all came a man with a rough, unpainted coffin 
upon his shoulders, closing the funeral train. 



Many of the priests, monks, monsignori, 
and cardinals of Rome have a bad reputation, 
even after deducting a tithe or so from the 
tales of gossip. To some of them may be ap- 
plied the rhyming Latin distich, written for 
the monks of old : — 

"O Monachi, 
Vestri stomachi 
Sunt amphora Bacchi ; 
Vos estis, 
Deus est testis, 
Turpissima pestis." 

The graphic description which Thomson 
gives in his "Castle of Indolence" would read- 
ily find an impersonation among the Roman 
priesthood : — 

** Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, — 
Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy ; — 



328 Rome in Midsummer 

A little, round, fat, oily man of God 
Was one I chiefly marked among the fry ; 
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, 
Which shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 
When a tight damsel chanced to trippen by ; 
But when observed, would shrink into his mew, 
And straight would recollect his piety anew." 



Yonder across the square goes a Minente of 
Trastevere ; a fellow who boasts the blood of 
the old Romans in his veins. He is a plebe- 
ian exquisite of the western bank of the Tiber, 
with a swarthy face and the step of an em- 
peror. He wears a slouched hat, and blue 
velvet jacket and breeches, and has enormous 
silver buckles in his shoes. As he marches 
along, he sings a ditty in his own vulgar dia- 
lect : — 

** Uno, due, e tre, 
E lo Papa non e Re." 

Now he stops to talk with a woman with a pan 
of coals in her hand. What violent gestures ! 
what expressive attitudes ! Head, hands, and 
feet are all in motion, — not a muscle is still ! 
It must be some interesting subject that ex- 
cites him so much, and gives such energy to 
his gestures and his language. No ; he only 
wants to light his pipe ! 



Rome in Midsummer 329 

It is now past midnight. The moon is full 
and bright, and the shadows lie so dark and 
massive in the street that they seem a part of 
the walls that cast them. I have just returned 
from the Coliseum, whose ruins are so marvel- 
lously beautiful by moonlight. No stranger at 
Rome omits this midnight visit ; for though 
there is something unpleasant in having one's 
admiration forestalled, and being as it were 
romantic aforethought, yet the charm is so 
powerful, the scene so surpassingly beautiful 
and sublime, — the hour, the silence, and the 
colossal ruin have such a mastery over the 
soul, — that you are disarmed when most up- 
on your guard, and betrayed into an enthu- 
siasm which perhaps you had silently resolved 
you would not feel. 

On my way to the Coliseum, I crossed the 
Capitoline Hill, and descended into the Roman 
Forum by the broad staircase that leads to the 
triumphal arch of Septimius Severus. Close 
upon my right hand stood the three remaining 
columns of the Temple of the Thunderer, and 
the beautiful Ionic portico of the Temple 
of Concord, — their base in shadow, and the 
bright moonbeam striking aslant upon the 
broken entablature above. Before me rose 



330 Rome in Midsummer 

the Phocian Column, — an isolated shaft, like 
a thin vapor hanging in the air scarce visible ; 
and far to the left, the ruins of the Temple of 
Antonio and Faustina, and the three colossal 
arches of the Temple of Peace, — dim, shadowy, 
indistinct, — seemed to melt away and mingle 
with the sky. I crossed the Forum to the foot 
of the Palatine, and, ascending the Via Sacra, 
passed beneath the Arch of Titus. From this 
point, I saw below me the gigantic outline of 
the Coliseum, like a cloud resting upon the 
earth. As I descended the hillside, it grew 
more broad and high, — more definite in its 
form, and yet more grand in its dimensions, — 
till, from the vale in which it stands encom- 
passed by three of the Seven Hills of Rome, 
— the Palatine, the Coelian, and the Esquiline, 
• — the majestic ruin in all its solitary grandeur 
" swelled vast to heaven." 

A single sentinel was pacing to and fro be- 
neath the arched gateway which leads to the 
interior, and his measured footsteps were the 
only sound that broke the breathless silence 
of the night. What a contrast with the scene 
which that same midnight hour presented, 
when, in Domitian's time, the eager populace 
began to gather at the gates, impatient for the 



Rome in Midsummer 331 

morning sports ! Nor was the contrast within 
less striking. Silence, and the quiet moon- 
beams, and the broad, deep shadows of the 
ruined wall ! Where were the senators of 
Rome, her matrons, and her virgins ? where 
the ferocious populace that rent the air with 
shouts, when, in the hundred holidays that 
marked the dedication of this imperial slaugh- 
ter-house, five thousand wild beasts from the 
Libyan deserts and the forests of Anatolia 
made the arena sick with blood ? Where 
were the Christian martyrs, that died with 
prayers upon their lips, amid the jeers and 
imprecations of their fellow-men ? where the 
barbarian gladiators, brought forth to the fes- 
tival of blood, and "butchered to make a Ro- 
man holiday '' ? The awful silence answered, 
" They are mine ! " The dust beneath me 
answered, " They are mine ! " 

I crossed to the opposite extremity of the 
amphitheatre. A lamp was burning in the lit- 
tle chapel, which has been formed from what 
was once a den for the wild beasts of the Ro- 
man festivals. Upon the steps sat the old 
beadsman, the only tenant of the Coliseum, 
who guides the stranger by night through the 
long galleries of this vast pile of ruins. I fol* 



332 Rome in Midsum7ner 

lowed him up a narrow wooden staircase, and 
entered one of the long and majestic corridors, 
which in ancient times ran entirely round the 
amphitheatre. Huge columns of solid mason- 
work, that seem the labor of Titans, support 
the flattened arches above ; and though the 
iron clamps are gone, which once fastened the 
hewn stones together, yet the columns stand 
majestic and unbroken, amid the ruin around 
them, and seem to defy "the iron tooth of 
time." Through the arches at the right, I 
could faintly discern the ruins of the baths of 
Titus on the Esquiline ; and from the left, 
through every chink and cranny of the wall, 
poured in the brilliant light of the full moon, 
casting gigantic shadows around me, and dif- 
fusing a soft, silvery twilight through the long 
arcades. At length I came to an open space, 
where the arches above had crumbled away, 
leaving the pavement an unroofed terrace high 
in air. From this point, I could see the whole 
interior of the amphitheatre spread out be- 
neath me, with such a soft and indefinite out- 
line that it seemed less an earthly reality than 
a reflection in the bosom of a lake. The 
figures of several persons below were just 
perceptible, mingling grotesquely with their 



Rome in Midsummer 333 

foreshortened shadows. The sound of their 
voices reached me in a whisper ; and the cross 
that stands in the centre of the arena looked 
like a dagger thrust into the sand. Idid not 
conjure up the past, for the past had already- 
become identified with the present. It was 
before me in one of its visible and most ma- 
jestic forms. The arbitrary distinctions of 
lime, years, ages, centuries were annihilated. 
I was a citizen of Rome ! This was the am- 
phitheatre of Flavins Vespasian ! 

Mighty is the spirit of the past, amid the 
ruins of the Eternal City ! 



THE VILLAGE OF LA RICCIA 

Egressum magnSi me excepit Aricia RomfiL, 
Hospitio modico. 

Horace. 

I PASSED the month of September at the 
village of La Riccia, which stands upon 
the western declivity of the Albanian hills, 
looking towards Rome. Its situation is one 
of the most beautiful which Italy can boast. 
Like a mural crown, it encircles the brow of 
a romantic hill ; woodlands of the most luxu- 
riant foliage whisper around it ; above rise the 
rugged summits of the Abruzzi, and beneath 
lies the level floor of the Campagna, blotted 
with ruined tombs, and marked with broken 
but magnificent aqueducts that point the way 
to Rome. The whole region is classic ground. 
The Appian Way leads you from the gate of 
Rome to the gate of La Riccia. On one hand 
you have the Alban Lake, on the other the 
Lake of Nemi ; and the sylvan retreats around 
were once the dwelUngs of Hippolytus and the 
nymph Egeria. 



The Village of La Riccia 335 

The town itself, however, is mean and dirty. 
The only inhabitable part is near the northern 
gate, where the two streets of the village meet. 
There, face to face, upon a square terrace, 
paved with large, flat stones, stand the Chigi 
palace and the village church with a dome and 
portico. There, too, stands the village inn, with 
its beds of cool, elastic maize-husks, its little 
dormitories, six feet square, and its spacious 
saloon, upon whose walls the melancholy story 
of Hippolytus is told in gorgeous frescoes. 
And there, too, at the union of the streets, 
just peeping through the gateway, rises the 
wedge-shaped Casa Antonini, within whose 
dusty chambers I passed the month of my 
villeggiatzcra, in company with two much- 
esteemed friends from the Old Dominion, 
— a fair daughter of that generous clime, and 
her husband, an artist, an enthusiast, and a 
man of " infinite jest." 

My daily occupations in this delightful spot 
were such as an idle man usually whiles away 
his time withal in such a rural residence. I 
read Italian poetry, — strolled in the Chigi 
park, — rambled about the wooded environs of 
the village, — took an airing on a jackass, — 
threw stones into the Alban Lake, — and, be- 



336 The Village of La Riccia 

ing seized at intervals with the artist-mania, 
that came upon me Hke an intermittent fever, 
sketched — or thought I did — the trunk of a 
hollow tree, or the spire of a distant church, 
or a fountain in the shade. 

At such seasons, the mind is " tickled with 
a straw," and magnifies each trivial circum- 
stance into an event of some importance. I 
recollect one morning, as I sat at breakfast in 
the village coffee-house, a large and beautiful 
spaniel came into the room, and placing his 
head upon my knee looked up into my face 
with a most piteous look, poor dog ! as much 
as to say that he had not breakfasted. I gave 
him a morsel of bread, which he swallowed 
without so much as moving his long silken 
ears ; and keeping his soft, beautiful eyes still 
fixed upon mine, he thumped upon the floor 
with his bushy tail, as if knocking for the 
waiter. He was a very beautiful animal, and 
so gentle and affectionate in his manner, that I 
asked the waiter who his owner was. 

" He has none now," said the boy. 

" What ! " said I, " so fine a dog without a 
master } " 

"Ah, Sir, he used to belong to Gasparoni, 
the famous robber of the Abruzzi mountains, 



The Village of La Riccia 337 

who murdered so many people, and was caught 
at last and sent to the galleys for life. There 's 
his portrait on the wall." 

It hung directly in front of me ; a coarse 
print, representing the dark, stern counte- 
nance of that sinful man, a face that wore an 
expression of savage ferocity and coarse sen- 
suality. I had heard his story told in the vil- 
lage ; the accustomed tale of outrage, violence, 
and murder. And is it possible, thought I, 
that this man of blood could have chosen so 
kind and gentle a companion } What a re- 
buke must he have met in those large, meek 
eyes, when he patted his favorite on the 
head, and dappled his long ears with blood ! 
Heaven seems in mercy to have ordained that 
none — no, not even the most depraved — 
should be left entirely to his evil nature, with- 
out one patient monitor, — a wife, — a daugh- 
ter, — a fawning, meek-eyed dog, whose silent, 
supplicating look may rebuke the man of sin ! 
If this mute, playful creature, that licks the 
stranger's hand, were gifted with the power of 
articulate speech, how many a tale of midnight 
storm, and mountain-pass, and lonely glen, 
would — but these reflections are common' 
place ! 

15 



338 The Village of La Riccia 

On another occasion, I saw an overladen 
ass fall on the steep and slippery pavement of 
the street. He made violent but useless ef- 
forts to get upon his feet again ; and his brutal 
driver — more brutal than the suffering beast 
of burden — beat him unmercifully with his 
heavy whip. Barbarian ! is it not enough that 
you have laid upon your uncomplaining ser- 
vant a burden greater than he can bear? 
Must you scourge this unresisting slave, 
because his strength .has failed him in your 
hard service t Does not that imploring look 
disarm you } Does not — and here was an- 
other theme for commonplace reflection ! 

Again. A little band of pilgrims, clad in 
white, with staves, and scallop-shells, and san- 
dal shoon, have just passed through the village 
gate, wending their toilsome way to the holy 
shrine of Loretto. They wind along the 
brow of the hill with slow and solemn pace, — 
just as they ought to do, to agree with my no- 
tion of a pilgrimage, drawn from novels. And 
now they disappear behind the hill ; and hark ! 
they are singing a mournful hymn, like Chris- 
tian and Hopeful on their way to the Delecta- 
ble Mountains. How strange it seems to me, 
that I should ever behold a scene like this ! a 



The Village of La Riccia 339 

pilgrimage to Loretto ! Here was another 
outline for the imagination to fill up. 

But my chief delight was in sauntering 
along the many woodland walks, which di- 
verge in every direction from the gates of La 
Riccia. One of these plunges down the steep 
declivity of the hill, and, threading its way 
through a most romantic valley, leads to the 
shapeless tomb of the Horatii and the pleasant 
village of Albano. Another conducts you over 
swelling uplands and through wooded hollows 
to Genzano and the sequestered Lake of Nemi, 
which lies in its deep crater, like the waters of 
a well, "all coiled into itself and round, as 
sleeps the snake." A third, and the most 
beautiful of all, runs in an undulating line 
along the crest of the last and lowest ridge of 
the Albanian Hills, and leads to the borders 
of the Alban Lake. In parts it hides itself in 
thick-leaved hollows, in parts climbs the open 
hillside and overlooks the Campagna. Then 
it winds along the brim of the deep, oval basin 
of the lake, to the village of Castel Gandolfo, 
and thence onward to Marino, Grotta-Ferrata, 
and Frascati. 

That part of the road which looks down up- 
on the lake passes through a magnificent gal- 



340 The Village of La Riccia 

lery of thick embowering trees, whose dense 
and luxuriant foliage completely shuts out the 
noonday sun, forming 

"A greensward wagon- way, that, like 
Cathedral aisle, completely roofed with branches, 
Runs through the gloomy wood from top to bottom, 
And has at either end a Gothic door 
Wide open." 

This long sylvan arcade is called the Galle-^ 
ria-di-soprUy to distinguish it from the Galleria- 
di-sotto, a similar, though less beautiful avenue, 
leading from Castel Gandolfo to Albano, un- 
der the brow of the hill. In this upper gal- 
lery, and almost hidden amid its old and leafy 
trees, stands a Capuchin convent, with a little 
esplanade in front, from which the eye enjoys 
a beautiful view of the lake, and the swelling 
hills beyond. It is a lovely spot, — so lonely, 
cool, and still ; and was my favorite and most 
frequented haunt. 

Another pathway conducts you round the 
southern shore of the Alban Lake, and, after 
passing the site of the ancient Alba Longa, 
and the convent of Palazzuolo, turns off to the 
right through a luxuriant forest, and climbs 
the rugged precipice of Rocca di Papa. Be- 
hind this village swells the rounded peak of 



The Village of La Riccia 341 

Monte Cavo, the highest pinnacle of the Al* 
banian Hills, rising three thousand feet above 
the level of the sea. Upon its summit once 
stood a temple of Jupiter, and the Triumphal 
Way, by which the Roman conquerors ascend- 
ed once a year in solemn procession to offer 
sacrifices, still leads you up the side of the hill. 
But a convent has been built upon the ruins 
of the ancient temple, and the disciples of Loy- 
ola are now the only conquerors that tread the 
pavement of the Triumphal Way. 

The view from the windows of the convent 
is vast and magnificent. Directly beneath 
you, the sigJit plunges headlong into a gulf of 
dark-green foliage, — the Alban Lake seems 
so near, that you can almost drop a pebble 
into it, — and Nemi, imbosomed m a green 
and cup-like valley, lies like a dew-drop in the 
hollow of a leaf All around you, upon every 
swell of the landscape, the white walls of rural 
towns and villages peep from their leafy cov- 
erts, — Genzano, La Riccia, Castel Gandolfo 
and Albano ; and beyond spreads the fiat and 
desolate Campagna, with Rome in its centre 
and seamed by the silver thread of the Tiber^ 
that at Ostia, " with a pleasant stream, whirl- 
ing in rapid eddies, and yellow with much 



342 The Village of La Riccia 

sand, rushes forward into the sea." The scene 
of half the ^neid is spread beneath you like a 
map ; and it would need volumes to describe 
each point that arrests the eye in this magnifi- 
cent panorama. 

As I stood leaning over the balcony of the 
convent, giving myself up to those reflections 
which the scene inspired, one of the brother- 
hood came from a neighboring cell, and en- 
tered into conversation with me. He was an 
old man, with a hoary head and a trembling 
hand ; yet his voice was musical and soft, and 
his eye still beamed with the enthusiasm of 
youth. 

'' How wonderful," said he, " is the scene be- 
fore us ! I have been an inmate of these walls 
for thirty years, and yet this prospect is as 
beautiful to my eye as when I gazed upon it 
for the first time. Not a day passes that I do 
not come to this window to behold and to ad- 
mire. My heart is still alive to the beauties of 
the scene, and to all the classic associations it 
inspires." 

"You have never, then, been whipped by an 
angel for reading Cicero and Plautus, as St 
Jerome was ? " 

" No," said the monk, with a smile. " From 



The Village of La Riccia 343 

my youth up I have been a disciple of Chry- 
sostom, who often slept with the comedies of 
Aristophanes beneath his pillow ; and yet J 
confess that the classic associations of Roman 
history and fable are not the most thrilHng 
which this scene awakens in my mind. Yon- 
der is the bridge from which Constantine be-. 
held the miraculous cross of fire in the sky ; 
and I can never forget that this convent is 
built upon the ruins of a pagan temple. The 
town of Ostia, which lies before us on the sea- 
shore, is renowned as the spot where the Tro- 
jan fugitive first landed on the coast of Italy. 
But other associations than this have made the 
spot holy in my sight. Marcus Minutius Fe- 
lix, a Roman lawyer, who flourished in the 
third century, a convert to our blesSed faith, 
and one of the purest writers of the Latin 
Church, here places the scene of his * Octa- 
vius.' This work has probably never fallen 
into your hands; for you are too young to 
have pushed your studies into the dusty tomes 
of the early Christian fathers." 

I replied that I had never so much as heard 
the book mentioned before ; and the monk 
continued : — 

" It is a dialogue upon the vanity of pagaa 



344 ^/^^ Viuage of La Riccia 

idolatry and the truth of the Christian religion, 
between Caecilius, a heathen, and Octavius, a 
Christian. The style is rich, flowing, and po- 
etical ; and if the author handles his weapons 
with less power than a Tertullian, yet he ex- 
hibits equal adroitness and more grace. He 
has rather the studied elegance of the Roman 
lawyer, than the bold spirit of a Christian 
martyr. But the volume is a treasure to me 
in my solitary hours, and I love to sit here 
upon the balcony, and con its poetic language 
and sweet imagery. You shall see the vol- 
ume ; I carry it in my bosom.'' 

With these words, the monk drew from the 
folds of his gown a small volume, bound in 
parchment, and clasped with silver ; and, turn- 
ing over^its well worn leaves, continued : — 

" In the introduction, the author describes 
himself as walking upon the sea-shore at Ostia, 
in company with his friends Octavius and Cae- 
cilius. Observe in what beautiful language he 
describes the scene." 

Here he read to me the following passage, 
which I transcribe, not from memory, but from 
the book itself 

" It was vacation-time, and that gave me 
aloose from my business at the bar ; for it was 



The Village of La Riccia 345 

the season after the summer's heat, when au- 
tumn promised fair, and put on the face of 
temperate. We set out, therefore, in the 
morning early, and as we were walking upon 
the sea-shore, and a kindly breeze fanned and 
refreshed our limbs, and the yielding sand soft- 
ly submitted to our feet and made it delicious 
travelling, Caecilius on a sudden espied the 
statue of Serapis, and, according to the vulgar 
mode of superstition, raised his hand to his 
mouth, and paid his adoration in kisses. Upon 
which, Octavius, addressing himself to me, 
said, — 'It is not well done, my brother Mar- 
cus, thus to leave your inseparable companion 
in the depth of vulgar darkness, and to suffer 
him, in so clear a day, to stumble upon 
stones ; stones, indeed, of figure, and anointed 
with oil, and crowned ; but stones, however, 
still they are ; — for you cannot but be sensible 
that your permitting so foul an error in your 
friend redounds no less to your disgrace than 
his. ' This discourse of his held us through 
half the city ; and now we began to find our- 
selves upon the free and open shore. There 
the gently washing waves had spread the ex- 
tremest sands into the order of an artificial 
walk ; and as the sea always expresses some 
»5* 



346 The Village of La Riccia 

roughness in his looks, even when the winds 
are still, although he did not roll in foam and 
angry surges to the shore, yet were we much 
delighted, as we walked upon the edges of the 
water, to see the crisping, frizzly waves glide 
in snaky folds, one while playing against our 
feet, and then^again retiring and lost in the 
devouring ocean. Softly then, and calmly as 
the sea about us, we travelled on, and kept 
upon the brim of the gently declining shore, 
beguiling the way with our stories." 

Here the sound of the convent-bell inter- 
rupted the reading of the monk, and, closing 
the volume, he replaced it in his bosom, and 
bade me farewell, with a parting injunction to 
read the " Octavius " of Minutius Felix as 
soon as I should return to Rome. 

During the summer months. La Riccia is a 
favorite resort of foreign artists who are pursu- 
ing their studies in> the churches and galleries 
of Rome. Tired of copying the works of art, 
they go forth to copy the works of nature; 
and you will find them perched on their camp- 
stools at every picturesque point of view, with 
white umbrellas to shield them from the sun, 
and paint-boxes upon their knees, sketching 
with busy hands the smiling features of the 



The Village of La Riccia 347 

landscape. The peasantry, too, are fine mod- 
els for their study. The women of Genzano 
are noted for their beauty, and almost every 
village in the neighborhood has something pe- 
culiar in its costume. 

The sultry day was closing, and I had 
reached, in my accustomed evening s walk, 
the woodland gallery that looks down upon 
the Alban Lake. The setting sun seemed to 
melt away in the sky, dissolving into a golden 
rain, that bathed the whole Campagna with 
unearthly splendor; while Rome in the dis- 
tance, half-hidden, half-revealed, lay floating 
like a mote in the broad and misty sunbeam. 
The woodland walk before me seemed roofed 
with gold and emerald ; and at intervals across 
its leafy arches shot the level rays of the sun, 
kindling, as they passed, like the burning shaft 
of Acestes. Beneath me the lake slept quiet- 
ly. A blue, smoky vapor floated around its 
overhanging cliffs ; the tapering cone of Monte 
Cavo hung reflected in the water ; a little boat 
skimmed along its glassy surface, and I could 
even hear the sound of the laboring oar, so 
motionless and silent was the air around me. 

I soon reached the convent of Castel Gan- 
dolfo. Upon one of the stone benches of the 



348 The Village of La Riccia 

esplanade sat a monk with a book in his hand. 
He saluted me, as I approached, and some 
trivial remarks upon the scene before us led 
us into conversation. I observed by his ac- 
cent that he was not a native of Italy, though 
he spoke Italian with great fluency. In this 
opinion I was confirmed by his saying that he 
should soon bid farewell to Italy and return to 
his native lakes and mountains in the north of 
Ireland. I then said to him in English, — 

"" How strange, that an Irishman and an An- 
glo-American should be conversing together 
in Italian upon the shores of Lake Albano ! " 

" It is strange," said he, with a smile ; " though 
stranger things have happened. But I owe the 
pleasure of this meeting to a circumstance 
which changes that pleasure into pain. I have 
been detained here many weeks beyond the 
time I had fixed for my departure by the ill- 
ness of a friend, who lies at the point of death 
within the walls of this convent." 

" Is he, too, a Capuchin friar like yourself.'^ " 

" He is. We came together from our native 
land, some six years ago, to study at the Jesuit 
College in Rome. This summer we were to 
have returned home again ; but I shall now 
make the journey alone." 



The Village of La Riccia 349 

" Is there, then, no-^^hope of his recovery ? " 
" None whatever," answered the monk, shak- 
ing his head. "He has been brought to this 
convent from Rome, for the benefit of a purer 
air ; but it is only to die, and be buried near 
the borders of this beautiful lake. He is a vic- 
tim of consumption. But come with me to his 
cell. He will feel it a kindness to have you 
visit him. Such a mark of sympathy in a 
stranger will be grateful to him in this foreign 
land, where friends are so few." 

We entered the chapel together, and, ascend- 
ing a flight of steps beside the altar, passed in- 
to the cloisters of the convent. Another flight 
of steps led us to the dormitories' above, in one 
of which the sick man lay. Here my guide 
left me for a moment, and softly entered a. 
neighboring cell. He soon returned and beck- 
oned me to come in. The room was dark and 
hot ; for the window-shutters had been closed 
to keep out the rays of the sun, that in the af- 
ter part of the day fell unobstructed upon the 
western wall of the convent. In one corner of 
the little room, upon a pallet of straw, lay the 
sick man, with his face towards the wall. As 
I entered, he raised himself upon his elbow,. 
and, stretching out his hand to me, said, in a 
faint voice, — 



350 TJu Village of La Riccia 

" I am glad to see you. It is kind in you to 
make me this visit." 

Then speaking to his friend, he begged him 
to open the shutters and let in the light and 
air ; and as the bright sunbeam through the 
wreathing vapors of evening played upon the 
wall and ceiling, he said, with a sigh, — 

" How beautiful is an Italian sunset ! Its 
splendor is all around us, as if we stood in the 
horizon itself and could touch the sky. And 
yet, to a sick man's feeble and distempered 
sight, it has a wan and sickly hue. He turns 
away with an aching heart from the splendor 
he cannot enjoy. The cool air seems the only 
friendly thing that is left for him." 

As he spake, a deeper shade of sadness stole 
over his pale countenance, sallow and attenu- 
ated by long illness. But it soon passed off: 
and as the conversation changed to other top- 
ics, he grew cheerful again. He spoke of his 
return to his native land with childish delight. 
This hope had not deserted him. It seemed 
never to have entered his mind that even this 
consolation would be denied him, — that death 
would thwart even these fond anticipations. 

" I shall soon be well enough," said he, " to 
undertake the journey ; and, O, with what 



The Village of La Riccia 351 

delight shall I turn my back upon the Apen- 
nines ! We shall cross the Alps into Switzer- 
land, then go down the Rhine to England, and 
soon, soon we shall see the shores of the Em- 
erald Isle, and once more embrace father, 
mother, sisters ! By my profession, I have 
renounced the world, but not those holy emo- 
tions of love which are one of the highest 
attributes of the soul, and which, though sown 
in corruption here, shall hereafter be raised in 
incorruption. No ; even he that died for us 
upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutter- 
able agony of death, was mindful of his mother ; 
as if to teach us that this holy love should be 
our last worldly thought, the last point of earth 
from which the soul should take its flight for 
heaven." 

He ceased to speak. His eyes were fastened 
upon the sky with a fixed and steady gaze, 
though all unconsciously, for his thoughts 
were far away amid the scenes of his distant 
home. As I left his cell, he seemed sinking to 
sleep, and hardly noticed my departure. The 
gloom of twihght had already filled the clois- 
ters ; the monks were chanting their even- 
ing hymn in the chapel ; and one unbroken 
shadow spread through the long cathedral 



3 



352 The Village of La Riccia 

aisle ol forest-trees which led me homeward. 
There, in the silence of the hour, and amid 
the almost sepulchral gloom of the woodland 
scene, I tried to impress upon my careless 
heart the serious and affecting lesson I had 
learned. 

I saw the sick monk no more ; but a day or 
two afterward I heard in the village that he 
had departed, — not for an earthly, but for a 
heavenly home. 



NOTE-BOOK 



<)nc«t more among the old, gigantic hills. 

With vapors clouded o'er, 
The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind, 

And rocks ascend before. 
Trhey beckon me, — the giants, — from afar. 

They wing my footsteps on ; 
Ifheir helms of ice, their plumage of the pine, 

Their cuirasses of stone. 

OeHLENSCH LAGER. 



THE glorious autumn closed. From the 
Abruzzi Mountains came the Zampo- 
gnari, playing their rustic bagpipes beneath 
the images of the Virgin in the streets of 
Rome, and hailing with rude minstrelsy the 
approach of merry Christmas. The shops 
were full of dolls and playthings for the Bi- 
fana, who enacts in Italy the same merry in- 
terlude for children that Santiclaus does in 
the North ; and travellers from colder climes 
began to fly southward, like sun-seeking swal- 
lows. 

I left Rome for Venice, crossing the Apen- 
nines by the wild gorge of the Strettura, in a 
drenching rain. At Fano we struck into the 

^nds of the Adriatic, and followed the sea- 

w 



354 Note 'Book 

shore northward to Rimini, where in the mar- 
ket-place stands a pedestal of stone, from 
which, as an officious cicerone informed me, 
"Julius Caesar preached to his army, before 
crossing the Rubicon." Other principal points 
in my journey were Bologna, with its Campo 
Santo, its gloomy arcades, and its sausages ; 
Ferrara, with its ducal palace and the dungeon 
of Tasso ; Padua the Learned, with its sombre 
and scholastic air, and its inhabitants " apt for 
pike or pen." 

I FIRST saw Venice by moonlight, as we 
skimmed by the island of St. George in a fe- 
lucca, and entered the Grand Canal. A thou- 
sand lamps glittered from the square of St 
Mark, and along the water's edge. Above 
rose the cloudy shapes of spires, domes, and 
palaces, emerging from the sea ; and occasion- 
ally the twinkling lamp of a gondola darted 
across the water like a shooting star, and sud- 
denly disappeared, as if quenched in the 
wave. There was something so unearthly in 
the scene, — so visionary and fairy-like, — that 
I almost expected to see the city float away 
like a cloud, and dissolve into thin air. 

Howell, in his " Signorie of Venice," says, 



Note 'Book 355 

^ It is the water, wherein she lies like a 
swan's -nest, that doth both fence and feed 
her." Again : " She swims in wealth and 
wantonness, as well as she doth in the wa- 
ters ; she melts in softness and sensuality, as 
much as any other whatsoever." And still 
farther : '* Her streets are so neat and evenly 
paved, that in the dead of winter one may 
walk up and down in a pair of satin pantables 
and crimson silk stockings, and not be dirtied." 
And the old Italian proverb says, — 

"Venegia, Venegia, 
Chi non ti vede non ti pregia ; 
Ma chi t' ha troppo veduto 
Ti dispregia ! " 

Venice, Venice, who sees thee not doth not 
prize thee ; but who hath too much seen thee 
doth despise thee ! 

Should you ever want a gondolier at Venice 
to sing you a passage from Tasso by moon- 
light, inquire for Toni loscan. He has a 
voice like a raven. I sketched his portrait 
in my note-book ; and he wrote beneath it 
this inscription : — 

*' Poeta Natural che Venizian, 
Ch' el so nome xe un tal Toni Toscaru" 



356 Note 'Book 

The road from Venice to Trieste traverses 
a vast tract of level land, with the Friulian 
Mountains on the left, and the Adriatic on 
the right. You pass through long avenues 
of trees, and the road stretches in unbroken 
perspective before and behind. Trieste is a 
busy, commercial city, with wide streets in- 
tersecting each other at right angles. It is 
a mart for all nations. Greeks, Turks, Ital- 
ians, Germans, French, and English meet you 
at every corner and in every coffee-house ; and 
the ever-changing variety of national counte- 
nance and costume affords an amusing and 
instructive study for a traveller. 



Trieste to Vienna. Daybreak among the 
Carnic Alps. Above and around me huge 
snow-covered pinnacles, shapeless masses in 
the pale starlight, — till touched by the morn- 
ing sunbeam, as by Ithuriel's spear, they as- 
sume their natural forms and dimensions. A 
long, winding valley beneath, sheeted with 
spotless snow. At my side a yawning and 
rent chasm ; — a mountain brook, — seen now 
and then through the chinks of its icy bridge, 
— black and treacherous, — and tinkling along 



Note 'Book 357 

its frozen channel with a sound like a distant 
clanking of chains. 

Magnificent highland scenery between Gratz 
and Vienna in the Steiermark. The wild 
mountain-pass from Meerzuschlag to Schott- 
wien. A castle built like an eagle's nest upon 
the top of a perpendicular crag. A little ham- 
let at the base of the mountain. A covered 
wagon, drawn by twenty-one horses, slowly 
toiling up the slippery, zigzag road. A snow- 
storm. Reached Vienna at midnight. 



On the southern bank of the Danube, about 
sixteen miles above Vienna, stands the ancient 
castle of Greifenstein, where — if the tale be 
true, though many doubt and some deny it — 
Richard the Lion-heart of England was impris- 
oned, when returning from the third crusade. 
It is built upon the summit of a steep and 
rocky hill, that rises just far enough from the 
river's brink to leave a foothold for the high- 
way. At the base of the hill stands the village 
of Greifenstein, from which a winding path- 
way leads you to the old castle. You pass 
through an arched gate into a narrow court- 
yard, and thence onward to a large, square 



358 Note 'Book 

tower. Near the doorway, and deeply cut into 
the solid rock, upon which the castle stands, is 
the form of a human hand, so perfect that your 
own lies in it as in a mould. And hence the 
name of Greifenstein. In the square tower is 
Richard's prison, completely isolated from the 
rest of the castle. A wooden staircase leads 
up on the outside to a light balcony, running 
entirely round the tower, not far below its 
turrets. From this balcony you enter the 
prison, — a small, square chamber, lighted by 
two Gothic windows. The walls of the tower 
are some five feet thick ; and in the pavement 
is a trap-door, opening into a dismal vault, — 
a vast dungeon, which occupies all the lower 
part of the tower, quite down to its rocky 
foundations, and which formerly had no en- 
trance but the trap-door above. In one corner 
of the chamber stands a large cage of oaken 
timber, in which the royal prisoner is said to 
have been shut up ; — the grossest lie that 
ever cheated the gaping curiosity of a traveller. 
The balcony commands some fine and pic- 
turesque views. Beneath you winds the lordly 
Danube, spreading its dark waters over a wide 
tract of meadow-land, and forming numerous 
little islands ; and all around, the landscape is 



Note 'Book 359 

bounded by forest-covered hills, topped by the 
mouldering turrets of a feudal castle or the 
tapering spire of a village church. The spot 
is well worth visiting, though German antiqua- 
ries say that Richard was not imprisoned 
there ; this story being at best a bold conjec- 
ture of what is possible, though not probable. 



From Vienna I passed northward, visiting 
Prague, Dresden, and Leipsic, and then fold- 
ing my wings for a season in the scholastic 
shades of Gottingen. Thence I passed through 
Cassel to Frankfort on the Maine ; and thence 
to Mayence, where I took the steamboat down 
the Rhine. These several journeys I shall not 
describe, for as many several reasons. First, 
— but no matter, — I prefer thus to stride 
across the earth like the Saturnian in Mi- 
cromegas, making but one step from the Adri- 
atic to the German Ocean. I leave untold the 
wonders of the wondrous Rhine, a fascinating 
theme. Not even the beauties of the Vauts- 
burg and the Bingenloch shall detain me. I 
hasten, like the blue waters of thac romantic 
river, to lose myself in the sands of Holland 



THE PILGRIM'S SALUTATION 



Ye who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell. 

Childe Harold. 



THESE, fair dames and courteous gentle- 
men, are some of the scenes and musings 
of my pilgrimage, when I journeyed away from 
my kith and kin into the land of Outre-Mer. 
And yet amid these scenes and musings, — • 
amid all the novelties of the Old World, and 
the quick succession of images that were con- 
tinually calling my thoughts away, there were 
always fond regrets and longings after the land 
of my birth lurking in the secret corners of my 
heart. When I stood by the sea-shore, and 
listened to the melancholy and familiar roar of 
its waves, it seemed but a step from the thresh- 
old of a foreign land to the fireside of home ; 
and when I watched the out-bound sail, fading 
over the water's edge, and losing itself in the 
blue mists of the sea, my heart went with it, 



The Pilgrim's Salutation 361 

and I turned away fancy-sick with the bless- 
ings of home and the endearments of domestic 
love. 

** I know not how, — but in yon land of roses 

My heart was heavy still ; 
I startled at the warbling nightingale, 

The zephyr on the hill. 
They said the stars shone with a softer gleam : 

It seemed not so to me ! 
In vain a scene of beauty beamed around, — 

My thoughts were o'er the sea. " 

At times I would sit at midnight in the 
solitude of my chamber, and give way to the 
recollection of distant friends. How delightful 
it is thus to strengthen within us the golden 
threads that unite our sympathies with the past, 
— to fill up, as it were, the blanks of existence 
with the images of those we love ! How sweet 
are these dreams of home in a foreign land ! 
How calmly across life's stormy sea blooms 
that little world of affection, like those Hespe- 
rian isles where eternal summer reigns, and the 
olive blossoms all the year round, and honey 
distils from the hollow oak ! Truly, the love 
of home is interwoven with all that is pure, and 
deep, and lasting in earthly affection. Let us 
wander where we may, the heart looks back 

with secret longing to the paternal roof. There 
16 



362 The Pilgrim's Salutation 

the scattered rays of affection concentrate. 
Time may enfeeble them, distance overshadow 
them, and the storms of Hfe obstruct them for 
a season ; but they will at length break through 
the cloud and storm, and glow, and burn, and 
brighten around the peaceful threshold of home. 

And now, farewell ! The storm is over, and 
through the parting clouds the radiant sun- 
shine breaks upon my path. God*s blessing 
upon you for your hospitality. I fear I have 
but poorly repaid it by these tales of my pil- 
grimage ; and I bear your kindness meekly, 
for I come not like Theudas of old, " boasting 
myself to be somebody." 

Farewell ! My prayer is, that I be not 
among you as the stranger at the court of 
Busiris ; that your God-speed be not a thrust 
that kills. 

The Pilgrim's benison upon this honorable 
company. Pax vobiscum ! 



COLOPHON" 



Heart, take thine ease, — 
Men hard to please 

Thou haply mightst offend 
Though some speak ill 
Of thee, some will 

Say better ; — there 's an end. 

Heylin. 



MY pilgrimage is ended. I have come 
home to rest ; and, recording the time 
past, I have fulfilled these things, and written 
them in this book, as it would come into my 
mind, — for the most part, when the duties of 
the day were over, and the world around me 
was hushed in sleep. The pen wherewith I 
write most easily is a feather stolen from the 
sable wing of night. Even now, as I record 
these parting words, it is long past midnight. 
The morning watches have begun. And as I 
write, the melancholy thought intrudes upon 
me, — To what end is all this toil ? Of what 
avail these midnight vigils ? Dost thou covet 
fame ? Vain dreamer ! A few brief days, — ^ 
and what will the busy world know of thee? 



364 Colophon 

Alas ! this little book is but a bubble on the 
stream ; and although it may catch the sun- 
shine for a moment, yet it will soon float 
down the swift-rushing current, and be seen 
no more! 



^Snoftd of jFfction 



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